


This is Liberty, A Parody on Utopia

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, American Sign Language, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mute Dave Strider, Original Universe, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: When a string of grisly murders shakes the gilded ivory towers of the cosmopolitan city of Skaia, the world takes notice. The case is handed to the capable and proven Crow's Eye firm, run by Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde. When the very same crime spree is revealed to be the sins of a race of genetically altered humans, known colloquially as werewolves, the duties of behavioral analysis fall upon an unknown, lone wolf, Karkat Vantas.(A noir fic, styled after Rintaro's 2001 film, Metropolis.)
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 22
Kudos: 49
Collections: Across the Universes: A Collection of all my DaveKat Fics





	1. Parade [Susumu Hirasawa]

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the translated lyrics of [Parade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQLU3CUaoLU), by Susumu Hirasawa, from the movie _Paprika_. Yes, I know I have three thousand other fics to finish. Why do I continue to do this to myself? As per usual, thanks for reading. I barely beta read, so feel free to point out any errors I made.

**15 April 2125:** Rose Lalonde is a woman of great stature. She stands at roughly five inches above the five foot mark, and her figure is softly rounded. Her eyes are a piercing pink, and they scour the room with the utmost care. She reaches out—her hand covered by a black leather glove—and runs her fingers down a deep scratch mark in the composite metal wall. “Deep,” she murmurs, her light blonde brows furrowing, contrasting with her medium brown skin. “Sharp, evenly spaced, and keenly defined.” She steps back.

A man, roughly six feet tall, with pale skin and hair so light it seems almost translucent, steps forward. Behind mirrored black aviator shades, red eyes study the scene. Wires are embedded against the skin on the back of his hands, with small metallic disks of half a centimeter in diameter atop each knuckle. He moves his hands in a calculated, precise manner—sign language—and words flow from a speaker, hidden in his pocket. His shades change, their opacity fading, becoming more transparent, so as to make his facial expressions more apparent. There’s a slight delay between his fluid, swift motions, and the auditory output. “Do you think this is the same guy we’ve been trailing? That werewolf?” To indicate a question, he furrows his brows and slightly opens his mouth.

“Oh, huh, I don’t know, David,” Rose hums, a smirk dancing at the edges of her shimmering black lips, “You tell me. We have a victim, with their throat ripped open, covered in non-human bite marks, and before a wall criss-crossed by distinctly lupine claw marks. I do wonder what this could be. The work of a robot, perhaps? I’ve heard that those automated assembly machines are vicious.” She pulls off her gloves, revealing that her nails have been painted the same pink as her eyes.

The man, meanwhile, wrinkles his nose. A low growl escapes him, and, when he bares his teeth, he shows a pair of slightly pointed canines. “I didn’t ask for your smart ass commentary, Rose.” He shakes his head, then runs his fingers through his hair. He stands above the body, arms now folded, and allows himself to consider the scene.

The victim’s gender cannot be determined due to massive trauma and decomposition, but enough injuries are apparent to make a definite determination of death by werewolf. By Rose’s guess, the individual was in their mid- to late-thirties. They were found where they lay now, against the entry-facing wall of their apartment, which overlooks the sprawling slums of the city of Skaia. The sun, which streams through the massive window along the entire back wall, has aided their body’s breakdown.

Dave waves his hand across his field of vision, and a screen is projected against the once-again-darkened surface of his shades. With haphazard gestural inputs, he adds information into the file.

_Affluent, but not well known. The standard white collar worker, raking in massive amounts of wealth for relatively little work. A solitary person, with no known family, and no apparent emergency contacts._

“Are you done with your investigation, Detectives?” a police officer calls from outside, in the hallway. “We need to clean out the space, so that it is ready for the next tenant.”

“Dave?” Rose inquires.

The man nods.

“Yes. We’re finished,” responds Rose.

* * *

**16 April 2125:** Karkat Vantas has spent most of his life working as a manual laborer. His status as a werewolf offers him perks, including increased strength and endurance. He’s a short man, barely surpassing the five foot mark, and of a modestly stocky build. His skin is a deep brown; his eyes, golden yellow; and his face is covered in scraggly stubble. His prominent, pointed nose is slightly crooked.

Having been pulled from his work site, where he had been aiding in the construction of an upcoming high rise apartment complex, he finds himself in the foreman’s office. It’s a stuffy, cramped room, with stained beige carpeting and the smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Across the desk—truthfully, little more than some plywood, laid across stacks of cement blocks—sits an unfamiliar man.

Blond, pale, and with an implacable air of cocky confidence. His thin lips are pressed together, forming a straight, indifferent line. Though a static-laden voice speaks, only his hands move. “You are K-A-R-K-A-T, correct?” The voice speaks each letter individually, gratingly, and continues before Karkat can’t properly respond. “My name is Dave Strider. I’m with Crow’s Eye Detective Agency.” Now, he pauses. He raises a brow above the lenses of his obnoxious shades.

Assuming, now, that the silence is an invitation to reply, Karkat speaks up. “Okay? And what does that fucking matter to me? I’ve been at work for the past three days straight. If you have a crime that you’re trying to pin on me, then try some other stupid chucklefuck,” he snaps.

“That’s not it.” Dave’s lips move, forming a small frown. “An affiliate of mine responded to a request for a werewolf consultant on a case we have been working for the past year. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” From his pocket, Dave takes a folded newspaper. He slides it across the desk. Against pale skin, thin wires along the lines of the bones of his fingers pulsate red.

Printed in large text across the top of the clipping is a familiar phrase—The Black Wolf of Skaia. Karkat knows the meaning. It’s a reference to a long, grisly trail of murders, numbering anywhere from thirteen to over a hundred. Nobody really knows who the perpetrator is, or if it’s even a singular person. All that’s known is that the killer targets affluent nobodies, and kills with little regard for maintaining a clean crime scene.

Karkat scoffs. He balls the paper up in his hand, then throws it back at the stranger. “Sure. I’d have to be deaf to have not heard of it.”

Dave winces at the word.

It suddenly strikes Karkat that the motions Dave has been using are sign language. Heat rises to his cheeks, burning brilliant and embarrassed. “I mean… I’d have to live under a rock to know nothing about this case. What’s your point? I’m losing time, and I’m paid by how long I’m clocked at the work site.”

The former offense seems to have slipped Dave’s mind. “We are willing to reimburse you generously. We need an informant and consultant, and you are the person we have been directed to. You are a local lone wolf, and that means that you don’t have any pack loyalties to protect.” Upon stopping, Dave takes an envelope from his faded red jacket’s inner pocket. “I will repeat that your time will be paid for at a rate well above what I’m sure you receive here.”

Though skeptical, Karkat opens the envelope. The sun is considerable. Three million dollars, in cash, is now clutched between his fingers. “Holy shit.”

A slight smile crosses Dave’s face. “This should cover at least a year of work. You will live with us until the case is wrapped up. If we solve the case earlier, then you may feel free to keep the excess. Deal?”

And, without seeing little more to lose beyond his sanity, Karkat responds by taking Dave’s outstretched hand into a firm, positive handshake.

* * *

**17 April 2125:** The building in which Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde both live and work from is a simple, historic brick structure. It’s nestled in the center of an oft-overlooked street in a neighborhood that is split evenly between crime and justice. While most of the inhabitants are law enforcement officers or detectives, the area has always been known for its high rate of thefts, murders, and mysteries. Maybe that is why the duo has always made a comfortable living.

Directly in front of the building, with its red bricks peeking through peeling white paint, is a rusted metal bench and a bus stop sign. It is here that Karkat Vantas is met by Rose, who greets him with a courteous smile. “Pleased to meet you, Karkat,” she offers her hand out, and the resultant handshake is firm and warm. She lifts Karkat’s excess baggage with ease, and trots towards the door. “I see you’ve come prepared.”

“Well, we both know that werewolves aren’t exactly the most welcome crowd in downtown Skaia,” huffs Karkat. He trails the woman, and emerges into a plainly adorned reception space.

The floor is made of solid wood, and the antique light bulbs and dangling pendant lights have been preserved. Beneath one of these, and behind the synthetic wooden desk at the room’s center, sits Dave. His eyes remain masked behind the same impenetrable shades as before, though Karkat can feel his gaze. He moves his hands, forming distinct shapes and motions, but Karkat doesn’t understand any of it. The robotic voice from before is silent.

Rose, however, counters with a thin, irritated smile. “Yes, he will be sharing a room with you. I know we have gone over this, and you agreed to the arrangements. I purchased and installed a sliding wall divider, so that should make you feel better.”

From Dave, a shrug. He takes a grey washcloth from the pocket of his coat and wipes it across his lips.

Rose shakes her head. She leads onward, up the stairs, and into a bare-walled, wood-panelled hallway. At the end of this space, through the last door on the right, she presents the space where Karkat will stay.

The room is relatively small, with rusting wooden bed frames shoved into opposite corners. While one bed is bare, the other, which Karkat can only assume belongs to Dave, is clad in solid red sheets. Next to it is a narrow bookshelf, stocked with worn out tomes of varying types and genres. There are two standing wardrobes, made of standard “some assembly required” style aluminum furniture. Through the ajar door of one, a pile of haphazardly folded clothing is visible.

“The bathroom is through that door,” Rose comments, pointing to the door to the southeast. “If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I shall give Dave a stern talking to after this, and I’m sure he will change his tune afterwards.”

“Huh.” Unthinking, Karkat allows his claws to extend from their nail beds, then retracts them. “So, uh, are the two of you related?”

“Dave and I?” Rose raises her brows, showing a bit of surprise. “Yes. Vaguely. We are cousins, but our families were never particularly close. I suppose this information is not confidential, and you, as a temporary resident of our home, are entitled to hear it.” She folds her arms across her chest and leans against the doorframe. As Karkat begins unpacking some of his things, she watches, her gaze both keen and unobtrusive. “Might I ask a question?”

“Don’t see why the fuck not,” Karkat shrugs.

“How do you happen to know my girlfriend?”

“Kanaya?” Karkat snickers. “She’s an old friend from school. It’s nothing particularly special. We both happened to wind up at the same high school, and we fucking didn’t kill each other, so we ended up being friends.”

“Fascinating story.” Neither Rose’s voice nor her posturing indicate if this statement is serious or sarcastic.

Karkat decides to assume, until evidence is presented otherwise, that she’s being serious. He nods. “Sure. I guess. What about Dave?”

“I presume that you are referencing his silence.” This is not a question, it’s a statement. Rose’s words are laced with a faint edge of weariness, but she continues, “Due to a childhood injury, Dave is unable to speak. He can hear. Is this the knowledge you were pursuing?”

Another nod. Karkat takes a bottle of aconitum pills, which he uses to alleviate his lycanthropy-related headaches during full moons. He sets them atop the small bedside table, then tosses his emptied rucksack underneath the precarious metallic bed frame. By the time he looks up, Rose is gone.

He sighs, folds his hands behind his head, and falls back, into the scratchy sheets.

“I know that werewolves are naturally nocturnal, but this is fucking ridiculous. I’ve met brain dead corpses with more awareness than you, asshole.” A droning, mechanical voice wakes Karkat from his shallow, fitful sleep. It emanates from a small wireless speaker, clipped to the sagging collar of Dave’s plain white t-shirt. As his hands move, the wires beneath his skin glow, pulsing with each gesture’s loosely defined beginning and end. “Finally. You are awake.”

From Karkat, a natural snarl. He shows pointed teeth, extends his claws, and lunges, stopping only when he realizes what he’s doing. His claws hover inches from Dave’s exposed neck, above a round, deep scar at the base. Slowly, he lowers his hands, retracts his claws, and sighs. “Fuck. Didn’t anyone teach you not to startle a sleeping werewolf, you goddamned idiot?”

Dave raises his right hand, the palm facing out, so that it’s roughly level with his shoulders. With his third and fourth fingers curled, and his index and middle fingers extended outward, he touches their tips to his thumb. “No.”

“Well, I guess I’m the unfortunate schmuck who’s been tasked with that nigh impossible challenge.” Shaking hands comb through unkempt, dark brown hair. “What, exactly, am I here for, anyhow? Both of you stupid virgin-bloods seem perfectly capable of figuring this out by yourself. Your firm’s record speaks for itself.”

“We need information. We do not have it. You do. Do you follow?” In spite of his silence, there’s a fine, pointed sense of condescension. It’s in the way he moves—how his shoulders are carelessly sloped; how loosely his gestures are defined; how his crooked, yellowed teeth are ever so slightly bared. He points to Karkat, then smoothly moves his hand, now a fist, to the side of his head. Abruptly, his index finger springs up, pointing to the ceiling, as the voice emerges from static, “Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Whatever, jackass.” By all accounts, this is the worst first impression Karkat has ever gotten from someone. At least, when other people hate him, they’re upfront about it. “What do you want, and what the fuck was the point of you waking me up?”

Dave nods to a plate of overcooked meat. “I made you some food. Go ahead and eat it.” Without warning, the pulsing lights along the backs of his hands turn green.

“It looks like absolute shit.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re a werewolf, right? It shouldn’t matter to you, so long as it’s meat.” The voice is informal, now, with a thick southern accent. “It ain’t my problem if you don’t eat. If you’re not going to eat it, I’ll just go hand it out to the group of starving muggers down the street.”

“Fine!” Karkat’s instinctive distaste for wasting food kicks in. His claws scrape against the porcelain plate as he snatches it up. He begins to shovel the food into his mouth, forcing the flavorless, leathery excuse for a dinner down without protest. “Whatever makes you shut the fuck up, you insufferable maggot.”

For a moment, a flicker of a smirk crosses Dave’s face. He wipes his mouth against the edge of a towel, slung over his shoulder, before clambering into his own bed. From the shelf, he takes a seemingly random book, which he proceeds to read in his usual silence.

At this point, a singular notion enters Karkat’s mind: no matter what the task is, he wants it to end as soon as possible. The less time he has to spend with Dave, the better.


	2. Reincarnation - Teinshou [Geinoh Yamashirogumi]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you really believe them when they told you the cause,  
> Did you really believe that this war would end wars.  
> Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,  
> The killing and dying it was all done in vain.  
> — The Green Fields of France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using the same standard format as usual. [brackets mean sign language].

**18 April 2125:** Here, in the silence of a soundproofed room, at the back of the building, behind the main office space, there’s a palpable sense of unease. The air is thick with a self-sustaining cycle of distrust, from both the interviewer and the interviewee. Aside from voices and breathing, the only sound is the low hum of the ceiling fan.

Earlier, Rose begun the discussion casually, managing to somehow lighten the oppressive urgency of the situation. She had informed Karkat of the procedure that he was to follow. He was to speak into the provided microphone, refrain from lying, and hide nothing. Her explanations lasted about an hour, interspersed with friendly conversation and displays of humanity and trust.

Now, in sheer contrast, it’s Dave turn. He’s not wearing his shades, which reveals that both of his eyes have been artificially enhanced. (Both irises glow a faint red. The intensity of the glow fluctuates from time to time, in tune with his emotions and level of focus.) Rather than the gesturing he’d been relying on earlier, he types what he wants to say into a device the size of an early twenty-first century laptop, then allows for it to speak for him. The resultant words are more natural, and lack the grating static quality of before.

“How long have you been a werewolf?”

“What? No greeting, douchebag?” After such a pleasant introduction with Rose, the shift in tone is startling. Already, his opinion having been cemented the night prior, Karkat isn’t fond of Dave. His lack of tact is only making that disdain grow. “You could at least try and act like a normal goddamned virgin-blood.”

The right edge of Dave’s mouth twitches downward, while the left remains unmoved. He wipes his mouth against the sleeve of his faded red suit jacket. It’s a casual motion, one that’s specifically formulated to draw as little attention as possible. “How long have you been a werewolf?” the voice repeats. Dave’s brows furrow.

“Fine. I signed up for a trial when I was thirteen. My parents were dead, I had no goddamned money, and I figured that being potentially killed for some sort of new wonder modification would be better than dying in abject poverty. So, that makes it ten years ago.”

“So, you weren’t born a werewolf, and you weren’t turned shortly after birth. Good. That’s the kind of person we need.”

“That’s the only nice thing you’ve ever said to me, jackass.”

Dave remains as unreadable as ever. In the buzzing fluorescent lighting, the scars across his face are readily apparent. The most visible is a deep, jagged line, which cuts through his unkempt early morning stubble. It begins behind his left ear and runs downward, cutting past his jaw, and ending near the midpoint of the corresponding side of his neck. When he notices Karkat’s stare, he shifts his position, doing his best to hide the old wound as he continues to type.

“Is it true that werewolves are required to eat human flesh to survive?”

“God. What the fuck!? No!” Karkat finds himself gagging at the mere thought of such an act. “That’s just an old lie. Police tell it to people because a fair number of werewolves are associated with illegal gangs and trafficking. No. That’s bullshit.”

“In packs, werewolves compete to have the most brutal kills, don’t they?”

“How the fuck would I know? You said it yourself. I’m not part of a pack.”

“Then what sort of motivation would a lone agent have to carry out multiple, vicious murders? Why mutilate the bodies after death?”

“Fuck if I know!” A low, instinctive growl escapes Karkat. His claws extend, and he digs them into the synthetic wooden surface of the table between him and his interrogator. “If you’re just going to treat me like some sort of criminal just for existing, then take your fucking money back. I’ll quit before I put up with the usual brand of ‘all werewolves are bad’ bullshit.”

“Answer my questions reasonably and we won’t have a fucking problem.” There’s a point at which Karkat’s understanding of the voice—an entity wholly separate and inhuman—seems to meld with the person it’s meant to belong to. There’s an edge to the words, and it’s unclear if it stems from the unbridled, metallic stench of rage that’s beginning to seep from Dave, or if it’s advanced programming. “Werewolves can sense emotions, right?”

“You reek of undeserved pride and unrighteous anger right now, Strider, so it’s safe to say yes. Werewolves can’t sense every emotion, but we can distinctly smell fear, anger, sadness, and extreme joy. The most intense, visceral emotions. Not that I’d ever get any sort of hint of innocent happiness from you.”

“I’m not exactly a happy person.” It’s a blunt reply, and the monotone hammers the message home. “Sometimes, people just aren’t meant to be happy. And that’s none of your fucking business.”

“So I guess that makes two of us. What a shame, being lumped into the same category as your loathsome being.”

Dave ignores the jibe. He presses ahead and takes a bundle of photos from his pocket. When he spreads them onto the table, it becomes clear that they’re from crime scenes. “The werewolf who did this must have some sort of special ability, correct?”

“Are you asking me to guess a werewolf’s power print? I don’t fucking know that. By default, all werewolves are granted the curse of enhanced stamina and strength. Whatever else the genetic lottery awards them with is neither my business nor my knowledge.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why bother lying? You’re an intelligent man. Your recommendation said as much. So, what are you trying to hide?”

Karkat pauses. He falls silent, and the boiling anger in his chest manifests as little more than him anxiously gnawing on his lower lip. When he finally responds, he lets the venom from before seep into his words, but the true bite behind them is gone. “I’m under no legal obligation to answer to you, and I don’t see how this line of questioning would be relevant. Are you accusing me of being the person you’re looking for? Because I can assure you, beyond any sort of specter of the vaguest subset of misgivings, that I spend my life as little more than a lowly, stupid bastard.”

“If I believed you were the one behind these killings, you would already be dead.” There’s a menacing look in Dave’s eyes. Nonetheless, somehow, Karkat senses that Dave isn’t the type to kill without remorse. (Rose, however…) There’s a pause. Dave kneads his knuckles against the inside of his forearm. “Fine. I’m going nowhere with this question, right? Say your name.”

“I’ve already done that, dipshit.” Even if the topic has changed, Karkat finds that his anxiety has decided to stick around. “It’s Karkat Vantas. Why?”

“My vocal program needs to hear a name before it can say it. If it’s not a standard name, it won’t know it. Which is to say that your name is about as common as actually printed out books or people without tongues. So, I pin both of us to the board of freaks.” Dave doesn’t elaborate on the comment. In fact, he continues, unmoved by Karkat’s obvious confusion. “Look, just answer the questions, and we can get out of here nice and quick-like. You can fuck around and do whatever you want to downtown, and I can get back to trying to figure out who did all this.”

“Fine.” (Admittedly, it’s a tantalizing offer.)

“Have you, personally, ever killed someone?”

“I was forced to during the genetic trials. We killed maybe five or six people each during our little foray into being lab mice for profit. Others thought it was thrilling. I hated it.”

“What you’re saying is that it wouldn’t be off the wall to assume that the perp murders for thrill, not survival.”

“We’ve already gone over this. Werewolves don’t  _ need  _ to kill to survive. That’s just a stupid lie, perpetuated by people who want all of us dead.” Any goodwill Karkat may have been inclined to show towards Dave disappears. A singular comment sets the working relationship back to the beginning. “Are you just bouncing ideas off of me?”

“Maybe. Do you have a problem with that? If you quit, you  _ do  _ have to pay us back at least half of what we gave you.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Congratulations. You’re stuck here.”

From Karkat, a snarl. “That is about the least pleasant thing I could imagine right now.”

“Then answer my question. What do you know about werewolf abilities?”

Karkat swallows. He breathes a long, heavy sigh, and tries to focus on anything other than the man across the table from him. The sound of the fan, the thumping of his own heart. “We all have a specific skill or ability that’s unique. You’ve already said that, right?”

“Yes.” Dave nods.

“Well, it depends on your genetic batch. The most common is enhanced strength. Whoever did this…” Even now, after everything he’s been through, Karkat can barely stomach looking at the photos of dismemberment and death. “I’d guess it’s from batch EA04-2102.”

“If my records are correct, that would be your batch,” Rose’s voice comes in through the intercom, confirming Karkat’s suspicions that the wall behind Dave is a one-way mirror. “And what, exactly, would that ability be?”

Karkat buries his face in his hands. A decade has passed since he signed up for the trials on a whim, thinking of nothing more than trying to survive on the streets. A decade spans between him, as he is now, and the unwilling murderer he was forced to become. Yet, a decade is nowhere near enough to separate him from his guilt. “The serum was used to test wound resistance. Batch EA04-2102 was meant to be the ultimate military serum.”

“So, what? Healing?”

“Yeah.” Karkats reply is soft.

Dave, meanwhile, rubs his hand against his chin. His brows furrow. “What about identity masking?”

“I have no fucking idea about that sort of thing.” With memories of his past clamoring to be let loose, the most Karkat can do is squeeze out this small admission. It takes him several minutes to get himself under control. He fights back his instinctive reaction to fear; he resists the urge to transform into his lupine form. And, after his mind finally clears enough to listen to his own thoughts, he speaks. “We weren’t a designer lot, if that’s what you’re asking. We don’t have any particularly special, obvious features. We weren’t branded, and we were released without comment into the public. If you want more information on it, you’d have to find the files.”

“Then I suppose we’re done for today.” Dave doesn’t wait for a reply. He doesn’t show gratitude, nor does he try to apologize for his hard stance during the whole affair. Instead, he gathers his things and leaves in the same manner he’d entered: silent, fuming, and reeking of bottled up anger.

* * *

**19 April 2125:** Kanaya Maryam is, in every sense of the word, elegant. Her figure is both tall and slender, and her full lips are, today, stained a brilliant green. Her hair is neatly styled, and the contrast of her collared white shirt against her dark skin makes her complexion shine like the most brilliant of nighttime skies. For the past five years, she has worked as part of the intelligence team for the Crow’s Eye agency, which is how she met her long-time girlfriend, Rose. And, at this current moment, a projected hologram of her is pacing around the living room of the upstairs living space.

“According to my research, the EA04-2102 batch originated in the eastern sector of the city of Alternia. The numerical data in the title means that it was first tested on live subjects in April of 2102, and records indicate that it was crafted by the Cunard Foundation, closely affiliated with the government of Skaia, and reimbursed by the military.”

Rose, who leisurely reclines in a plush grey armchair, nods. “I see. Thank you, Kan. And do you believe that this line of experiments is in any way linked to the rumors of the Skaia government attempting to start a global war for profit? We are all quite aware of the economic situation here. Those who are in power want more funds, and any means necessary are acceptable for them.”

“Perhaps.” Kanaya shrugs. She glances at something unseen and presses her lips together, forming a straight, thoughtful line. “Of course, Rosie, you would understand the gravity of the situation. I have learned to never doubt you.”

“I’m flattered,” snickers Rose. She sips on her still-steaming mint tea and considers the facts that are laid before her. “Of course, we cannot simply ask for the files. We’ll need to use a bit of haggling. I believe our funds might be sufficient for bribery, but I would rather not resort to such a tactic. Is there a possibility that we could get in contact with Sollux?”

“I can attempt to do so, yes.”

“Is there any other information that may be pertinent at the moment?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but rest assured that I will page you, specifically, should such facts arise.” A flirtatious grin spreads across Kanaya’s features. “Are we still lined up to go to dinner tonight?”

“Of course. Your choice. Until then, I must return to my work. I’ll see you soon, dear?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Kanaya responds, with a curtsy.

Later, in the same space, Rose and Dave convene. They both stare at the projected array of gathered information, mulling over what it means.

Dave initiates the discussion. He points his index finger, touches the tip to his forehead, and brings it down, so that his now loosely open right hand clasps his awaiting and slightly cupped left hand. [I believe,] he begins, his expression at once serious and nonplussed, [That what we’re dealing with is still just one person. I don’t think we need to turn this into some sort of multi-perp affair.] His response is not accompanied by a voice; around Rose, he doesn’t need one. His hands speak for him.

“Perhaps not.” There’s a short lapse in discussion as Rose gestures in front of her, zooming in on an old satellite photo of one of the crime scenes. “Whatever the case is, it is, with one-hundred percent certainty, a singular person performing these crimes. Do you believe that our killer is getting bolder? His last victim was in a fully occupied and very popular luxury high rise, and all indications suggest that the attack occurred during the day.”

From Dave, a shrug. He wrings his hands together, briefly staring at the wires embedded in his skin. Right now, they aren’t glowing. He likes it this way. He likes the intimacy of speaking to someone without an electronic third party. Especially when it comes to the formal voice setting, he much prefers the knowledge that his words—carefully chosen and precisely signed—are being understood for exactly what he is saying, and not what the algorithm believes that he wishes to say.

“You don’t know? Well, I don’t, either. So, we’re both at an impasse on that front.”

[I guess so.] Dave wipes his mouth on his jacket’s sleeve. [Karkat seems reluctant to talk about whatever sort of shit he went through. Not that I blame him for it, but it’s annoying, you know?]

“I understand that much. You wish to find the person who likely killed your brother, and you’re also seeking answers to your own questions.” Rose’s reply is accompanied by a sage nod. Her smile is calming. “Have you updated your speech software lately? Your words are starting to get minced, lately.”

[I’ll get around to it.] A dismissive wave punctuates Dave’s comment. [I’m more worried about what will happen next. The longer we go without finding the perp, the more people will die.]

“We have a press briefing come up soon, so I strongly suggest you get to that little task.”

[Whatever. You’re not my mother.] Dave smirks, though only the right side of his mouth moves. He pulls up his right sleeve, revealing a molded silicone panel, which he carefully peels away, to reveal the control module for his speech synthesizer. A few button presses is all it takes to update the software, and he quickly replaces the aesthetic cover. By blinking his eyes, he powers the synthesizer down, and returns to the discussion. [You don’t think he’s afraid of me, do you?]

“Who? Karkat? Why?” Rose grins. She digs a coy elbow into Dave’s side as she continues, barely hiding her snickering, “Do you  _ like  _ him?”

[No!] Dave repeats the sign several times, frantic to disprove this joke theory. [No! I’m just afraid that I scare people. I mean, we’re not exactly rich. Most of our income goes to the overhead for the business. You know that.]

“Oh, no, not this again.” Rose pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head as she counters her cousin’s commentary. “First of all, I know you’re more than  _ a little  _ self conscious, but your voice is what makes our firm stand out. Aside from not having nearly enough to cover the cost of a proper new device, you’d essentially turn us into every other detective agency out there.”

[So you’re saying that my problems are secondary to our survival as a firm?] Dave grimaces.

Rose, after a few minutes of thought, offers a sigh. “I mean… What else would we do? We’re not exactly qualified to be anything other than what we are. And—”

[I’m basically unemployable,] Dave shrugs. It’s a fact he’s keenly aware of. It’s something he once thought he’d made peace with, yet it’s also something that often haunts him. [I’m not much use to anyone as a financial investment, so nobody will ever invest in me beyond our acquired sleuthing skills. Yes. I know what you’re saying, but it fucking sucks.]

“Well, for now, those are the facts.”

[Sure.] Dave shakes his head. [Let’s just get back to the case. I’m already depressed enough as it is.]


	3. Rain [SID]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “‘You'll be fine on your own... right?’ was forced on me as you said goodbye,  
> Even though I should have been tired of hearing that kind of consolation.”  
> — [Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1RLl45ZWIY), SID (シド)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter warnings:** Graphic depictions of violence, Curbstomping Dave's fragile mental health.

**21 April 2125:** _In the darkness of his mind, amid the chaos of his dreams, Dave Strider is trapped in his own memories. He is fifteen years old, a social outcast, and mostly alone in the world. He knows few people, is ignored by his teachers, and dismissed as a problem in school._

_It’s mid-October, and the weather is humid, but bearable. There’s a slight wind, and he revels in the sensation of it as it combs through his hair. After a singular attempt, he has never taken the bus; instead, he prefers to ride his skateboard. There’s an inexplicable freedom to knowing that nothing protects him from the pavement, which speeds beneath him as he rides down the hill to the home he shares with his older brother._

_Everything is as it was then. Trees still line the road, though they’ve been long since cut down, plowed over, and covered with concrete. The world is still filled with potential, and his dreams are still set upon proving his worth._

_Innocence. It’s a word that Dave barely knows, now._

_He can remember it to the minute, how he’d casually cast aside his bag as he entered the house. The smell of the old wood and the sound of plaster crumbling as the bag rattled the floor hits him like a brick, a bullet ripping through his heart. Nailed to the wall, just inside and to the right of the front door, is a bell. He always rings it when he arrives home. The sound is clear and pure, a signal that things are fine. He’s home. He’s safe. The stares he can’t remember ever avoiding are gone. Now, it’s just his brother (or, technically, his uncle) and him. On this particular day, plans had been laid to go to the nearby mall and check out the fresh shipment of excess movie stock._

_There’s no reply._

_Dave rings the bell again._

_Nothing._

_“Dirk?” His voice comes from the speaker in his pocket, as it always has. (Or, at least, as it always has, for as long as he can remember.) “Dirk? Are you home? If this is a prank, it’s a pretty dumb one. Dirk?”_

_He wanders down the narrow hallway, listening intently to the creaking of the floorboards. There’s no movement besides his own. The more time passes without any sort of response, the deeper an old, familiar fear settles into his heart._

_“Dirk? You know I can’t raise my voice, jackass. This isn’t funny, now!”_

_He slips. When he looks down, his stomach flips. He feels vomit rising up his throat, and he forces himself to swallow it._

_Blood. He’s stepped in blood._

_“DIRK!” He shouts, and the sound of his own voice startles him. The word should be so familiar, yet, as it leaves his lips, it sounds foreign, even to his own ears._

_He scrambles, his heart racing as more blood comes into view. The trail leads into the kitchen. Tufts of coarse fur are held in place by sticky, drying blood against the hallway walls. He knows. In his heart, he knows; but, for his own sanity, he holds out hope. He holds out hope, up until he sees the severed head of the only person who’s ever given a damn about him, laid out upon the cracked tile floor of the kitchen._

_He drops to his knees, and he screams._

_His hands slide through slick, bloody masses of what was once human. Soon afterwards, the paramedics arrive. A blanket is thrown over his shoulders, and he resists. He begs, aloud, to be left alone. To be let back into the only place he’s ever considered a home._

_Nobody understands him._

_And, in that instant, the best two years of his life come to a screeching end. Once again, he’s alone, and the realization cuts to the very core of his psyche. He’s alone…_

* * *

**22 April 2125:** “We fucking failed. Another fucking murder, another goddamned bloodbath.” Dave slams a folder of bloody, gruesome photos onto the table. He whips around, and artificially enhanced eyes burn so brilliant and bright that the glowing irises are visible behind his mirrored black shades. “Your information was fucking worthless!” He kicks the table, turns, and punches the wall. Then, he paces, all while monologuing, his hands and hunched stance communicating his anger far more than the potent stench ever could.

“Do you understand how long I’ve been after this bastard? Ten years. Ten fucking years. Probably about the time you got paid to become a goddamned monster, I got tangled in this bullshit. Do you understand that?” When no reply comes, Dave turns. His left hand shoots across the table and grabs onto the front of Karkat’s shirt as he repeats, the monotone louder, now, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?”

“God. Fuck! Get your damn hands off of me! What the hell is wrong with you?” Karkat swipes at the man’s hand.

Dave withdraws, wincing. He stares at the fresh gashes along the back of his wrist for a few moments prior to shaking his head. He pulls his sleeve down, covering the wounds, and continues along the same path. “Listen to me, werewolf, I don’t care what it takes to get information out of you. I want whoever this bastard is in jail.”

“That’s your problem, not mine, you psychopathic ass.” Karkat lunges, swiping at Dave. He’s reached his boiling point. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to grow out, and his back arches. The transformation begins, and ends only once he’s on all fours, having taken the form of a pure black wolf.

“Yes. Exactly. You’re angry, right? So angry you could kill me? Rip off my head and leave it in the open, ready for discovery by whatever stupid piece of shit just stumbles ass-first into this place, right?” The right edge of Dave’s mouth twists upward, into a spine-chilling, unhinged grin. “Show me, then! Attack me!”

And, driven by years of resentment, Karkat obeys. He lunges, picturing Dave as every taunting bigot he’s ever encountered. His maw opens wide, allowing his snarls and growls to ring through the room, clear and crisp. The cold metal of the flat of a sword against his neck keeps him inches away from Dave’s exposed neck, and he struggles against the unnatural strength of the wielder.

“Exactly. You’re the same as him,” Dave’s hands don’t move. The speech seems to be coming from elsewhere, but Karkat isn’t thinking of the source right now. Instead, he focuses on the venom infused in each droning syllable. “You know more than you let on. You’ve killed people. It’s thrilling, isn’t it? So, tell me more. Tell me why this keeps happening.”

A stinging pain. The blade nicks Karkat’s side, and he feels his power draining from him.

_Wolfsbane. The blade was infused with wolfsbane._

As the transformation reverses, a familiar ache creeps into Karkat’s bones.

Dave drops the sword. While it clatters against the cement floor, he stands over the downed werewolf. “You bleed like a human, though.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Karkat spits.

“If I were to shoot you, would you die? How severely must you be wounded before your body gives out? As much as I’d like to, I won’t kill you.” It’s a lie; the way he’s frowning, how his eyes are cast downward, to the floor, all of it adds up to a lie. If there’s one thing that Karkat is confident of, it’s that his talk of murder is just that. It’s talk. Dave would never kill someone; he doesn’t have the moral flexibility to do so. The resentment, however, is real. “Get up.”

Not exactly wanting to test his theories on Dave’s willingness to kill, Karkat obeys. He fights the now-throbbing pain in his body and staggers to the chair on the other side of the table. He sits. It’s not comfortable, but it’s better than laying on the floor. “Everyone in my batch formed a pack. I refused. I left. I don’t know how much punishment we can go through, only that I survived being shot eight times, once in the head. Whatever sort of shit they did to us, it wasn’t fucking normal.”

“Of course not. You’re preaching to a choir of tone-deaf singers, werewolf.”

“I’m aware.” Karkat bares his teeth. “Why do you hate me so much? You barely know me, you ingratiate piece of shit.”

“Because one of you killed the only person in the world who ever gave a fuck about me. Is that a good enough reason?” Hearing the words as an electronic monotone is unnerving. “When I look at you, I see the reason for every goddamned moment of misery in my life.” Dave leans across the table, until he’s inches away from Karkat’s face. Glowing red eyes meet stoic golden yellow. Then, as swiftly as this brief moment of humanity began, it ends. Dave pulls back, and, for a reason Karkat can’t quite discern, he briefly allows for his hardened shell to drop.

There’s a long pause, during which Dave does nothing but sign. When he pauses, the voice begins. “Have you ever heard of the Silver Pack Ransom?”

“Yeah. Who hasn’t? I was young when it happened, but I know of it. Some werewolves abducted a kid. When the ransom wasn’t paid, they cut out the kid’s tongue. Why?”

“That was me.” It’s a simple statement. It’s not a cry for pity, nor a call for attention. It’s a blunt, humanizing statement. “Do you understand, now, why I hate you?”

“You’re misplacing your hatred, but I guess I get it.” Part of Karkat is beginning to realize that, perhaps, his anger at Dave is just as misguided; another part hates to admit it.

“We expect the next body to show up by the end of the week. When it does, I want you on site. This person is someone you know. I don’t know how well you know them, nor do I care, but I want you to tell us what information you can gather from the site.”

“Fine.”

“Then we’re done with questioning for the day.” Dave rises. As he had before, he departs without any sign of recognition towards his new hire.

* * *

**25 April 2125:** The scene stinks of fetid, rotting blood and viscera. Every surface seems to be covered, and a message has been etched into the plaster walls with claws: “DEATH IS A CONSTANT.”

“Rose is with Kanaya. They’re either making out or making headway on the case. it’s not my business which it is.” Dave’s hands move, dictating his own inner monologue, but his thoughts are spoken aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind, though he clearly notices. “What do you see, werewolf?”

“I have a name,” Karkat mumbles.

“What do you see?” Dave repeats.

Knowing that pursuing the issue further is a waste, Karkat bows his head and performs the assigned task. He studies the disemboweled former human. A faint smell, familiar but implacable, hangs around the stomach-churning scene. In the back of his mind, he wonders if this is the sort of thing that Dave sees every day; is this why he’s so cold?

“He was a father,” blurts out the monotone, its electronic modulations startling Karkat. Curious, he turns. He looks to Dave, who is standing in the corner, shoulders sagging, and holding a cracked photo. Flecks of blood cling to the faux gold frame.

To Karkat’s surprise, the commentary is followed by an action that casts Dave in a different light. He wanders off, approaches the officer in charge of the scene, and taps her on the shoulder. Once he has her attention, he signs, “Who found the body?”

“The victim’s son,” she answers.

Immediately, a heavy, oppressive cloud of realization falls over the whole room.

The silence is broken by Dave’s artificial voice. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to send him a letter. I know how it feels.” He rubs his wounded wrist, wincing, and pauses for a moment. For the first time, Karkat picks up on something other than anger from Dave, and it’s the wet, petrichor-like scent of sadness. Understanding. “I’m sorry.”

Karkat shakes his head. A singular good deed does not make a good man. He returns to his work, investigating the crime from top to bottom. He stops only when Dave intervenes, grabbing him by the shoulder.

A loud huff of air calls for attention.

“You’ve worked long enough. Go. Take a break.” Dave points to a clean table, upon which is a cup of soda. “Have you found anything?”

“I know the scent, and it’s from my batch of experiments, but I can’t remember who it belongs to.” Karkat rubs his eyes. He wonders how Dave can stand to visit scenes like this day after day. “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.” The apology is genuine.

“You’ve tried. That’s all we can do for now.”

“Don’t you have something to eat?”

Dave frowns. His brows furrow. “I don’t like eating in public.”

“Oh.” Karkat falls silent. He retrieves his drink, and does the only thing that he can think to do: he watches Dave work.

There’s a methodical, almost obsessive procedure to his study. He photographs every inch of the scene, and combs through every fiber on every fabric surface, seeking anything he can find to identify the attacker. He handles everything with care, bagging and labeling anything he thinks could be useful. Yet, through the process, he works in relative silence. His comments are limited to orders for the officers to follow or inquiries about the state of the crime scene.

After some time, Dave, too, takes a breather. He wanders to the cleared table, sits, and pulls off his blood-soaked gloves. “Karkat,” for the first time since their formal introduction, Dave addresses his informant by name. “Thank you for coming here. I appreciate the help. At least we can narrow down the suspect list. Rose said there were about twenty participants in the study, so we have the best chance we’ve ever had of finding out who’s doing this.”

Caught off guard by the sudden sincerity, Karkat manages little more than an awkward nod.

This seems to satisfy Dave, who quickly returns to documenting his findings.

As the clock nears midnight, and Karkat lays awake in his bed, unable to rid his mind of the horrors he witnessed, he hears a sound. It’s a melancholy melody, a beautiful, brilliant light in the midst of a dark reality. It draws him out of bed and beckons him, leading him downstairs, into the main office space. It pulls his gaze to the seat behind the desk, where Dave Strider sits, plucking out the tune on an old acoustic guitar. The wood is stained with dried blood splatter, and the neck has been visibly repaired, but its notes carry clear and true.

There’s an uncanny sense of reverence in the air, and a sense that what he’s seeing isn’t something he should have witnessed. He shouldn’t be witnessing it, yet he can’t take his eyes away. He remains captivated by the graceful dance of Dave’s fingers across the fretboard.

Without his shades on, Karkat can see the man’s eyes glow a low, pulsating red. And, faintly, Karkat picks up on the flowery, sweet aroma of something Dave denies experiencing: joy. He hums to the tune, his melody perfect, and a small half-smile graces his features.

It’s an odd glimpse into the human side of a man Karkat has written off as a complete asshole. In all people, there’s a side that they don’t want to show; right now, Karkat is keenly aware that he’s seeing Dave’s.

Yet, the werewolf stays. He watches from the stairwell, cloaked in shadow, until the song ends. When the next begins, he takes the opportunity to creep back upstairs and into his bed.


	4. The Real Thing [Michael Guy Bowman]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Reading all the right books,  
> Thinking all the right thoughts,  
> In another light looks  
> Like you had a blindspot…”  
> — [The Real Thing](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/the-real-thing), Michael Guy Bowman

**27 April 2125:** The projection area at the back of the Skaia Police Department’s main location is a spacious, wholly empty room. An array of lenses refract light, simulating the crime scene as Dave had so carefully documented it to be. Wearing specially designed gloves to simulate tactile feedback, Dave picks up the severed upper portion of the victim’s skull. He turns it about in his hands, studying the wound carefully.

His thoughts are fed through a wire behind his left ear and into the processor in his pocket. Those he deems important and relevant enough are tracked and added to the database, which is currently shown as part of the heads up display built into his shades. A voice feeds his words back to him, streaming through the earpiece he’s wearing.

“The force to perform this must have been fucking inhuman. It’s like slicing through a block of butter. The edges of the wounds are cleanly cut, even the skull.”

He sets this aside and wanders to another point of interest. When he presses his hand against the projection of a broken door frame, the gloves provide artificial feedback. The wood bends beneath his grasp, and part of him wonders if the reason for such a structural failure can be pinned on natural rot.

“Obvious signs of forced entry. The perpetrator deformed the door frame enough to bypass the lock, then entered the main living area.” As he thinks, Dave rubs his hand against his jaw. “The victim was facing away from the door and was attacked from behind.”

Rose, who sits just outside of this particular crime scene recreation’s range, reads the commentary on the screen. A pensive hum escapes her prior to her verbal input, “Or, perhaps, the victim was positioned such that they may have been able to view the door in their peripheral vision, but was not actively doing so when the attack began.”

[Maybe.] After wiping his sleeve against his mouth, Dave begins to pace. He crosses the span of the scene again and again, digging through every bit of information he can think of. Though he signs his thoughts to himself, the motions are less fluid than the flow of words onto the overlaid display.

“What we know is that the perp came in and sliced the poor jackass clean in half. We had the lower half in one corner, and the upper portion was tossed away, like an empty bag of shitty, stale chips. We have no idea when this happened, but the coroner’s report estimates that death occurred roughly three weeks prior to discovery…”

Dave shakes his head. [But that doesn’t help us, does it? We can run around with our stupid badges slapped to our foreheads all day, but just knowing when the bastard died is about as helpful confirming that he’s dead. What I want to know is when the perp entered the building.]

“And that’s a question that’s impossible to answer,” Rose says, matter-of-factly.

“Your time is up,” the head of the department announces. The hologram fades.

While Rose begins to quietly pack her things into her bag, Dave combs his fingers through his hair. He knows that he’s missing something. There’s a thread that links every murder together, and, beyond the fact that the criminal is a werewolf, he can’t pin down what it is. Yet, he feels as though he should be able to. It’s a nagging, gnawing sensation, that rakes against his gut like nails against slate. He  _ knows _ . He  _ should  _ know. But,  _ what is it  _ that he knows?

* * *

**28 April 2125:** The interior of the interrogation room has become a familiar place for Karkat. It’s somewhere he’s beginning to know, like an unwelcome new friend. He knows the musty, cool scent of the concrete. He’s acclimated himself to the strange, crackling sensation of his claws peeling wood chips from the cheap faux wood table. He thinks he can even approximate where the viewing window might be, though he can’t be entirely certain of this particular development.

As much as he hates it, he’s also finding himself learning more about Dave. He’s cultivated an awareness of the man’s many peculiarities. He wipes his mouth to remove the excess drool, which seems to naturally accumulate at the edges of his mouth. When he paces, he has a slight limp, which favors the left side. He dyes his hair; the shocking, natural white is visible at his roots, hidden beneath bleached blond.

And, now, as Dave settles into the seat across from Karkat, another of his traits is highlighted. Beneath his natural smell—of gunpowder, cigarette smoke, and wet earth—there’s the slightest edge of fear. It’s an unmistakable smell, akin to hickory smoke and sweat, both mixed in equal quantities.

“Werewolf,” he greets, brows furrowed.

“Asshole,” Karkat sneers.

Dave raises his right brow. His head cocks to the side, and his eyes briefly glow a bright, burning red. His hands move, and the green glow is, at first, constant; then, once he’s finished, as the voice speaks, it pulses. “We’ve rounded up a few photos of the serum subjects.” A photo slides across the table. “This is you, right?”

Karkat looks. Staring up from a glossy page is his own face, young and afraid. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Dave begins placing a further nineteen images out, pausing between each one. When he’s done, he provides further commentary. “These are all of the others. We were only able to obtain the werewolf forms of some of the subjects, so look closely. Who, of these people, stands out to you?”

As unpleasant as it is, Karkat forces himself to go ahead by assuring himself that he’s doing the right thing. He scans the images, mostly of young and impoverished kids. He remembers them. Try as he might to forget, he remembers them.

“This one,” he says, tapping his claw against the likeness of a scowling young man with black hair, “Diego. He’s dead. The serum failed for him. They took him away in the middle of the night, and the crematory was firing afterwards.”

“Okay.” Dave removes the image from the lineup.

“And this one…” Now, Karkat moves to a different photo. A young man looks up, his skin pale. Freckles are scattered across the bridge of his nose, and there’s a fearful look in his bright green eyes. Judging by the greyish-white coloration of his hair, this is one of the photos of the effects of the serum. “Ashe. He hated the whole thing. It’s not him.”

The remaining images are unfamiliar. Karkat can’t quite remember the details of the others, but the deep brown, almost burgundy, coat of one of the photographed wolves catches his attention. “Him. I can’t remember his name. He loved it. He loved every fucking second of the whole thing. He was the most obedient, housebroken militarist I’ve ever had the displeasure of being around.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.” The answer is honest. No matter how one may dissect the statement, Karkat simply doesn’t know the werewolf’s name.

And, Dave, thankfully, doesn’t debate otherwise. Instead, he puts a round red sticker on the photo, then slides it into his evidence folder. When he’s done, he sighs. “You’ve been helpful, werewolf,” he commends.

* * *

**1 May 2125:** In the middle of the underfunded and crumbling library, situated precariously on the corner of two famously dangerous streets, Karkat Vantas browses through crumbling tomes of bound paper. It’s rare for books to be published physically, and the dwindling number of libraries serve as the only remaining places in Skaia where print materials are used and stored. Newspaper stories, to decrease website bloat, are compiled and printed once every year, and the stories are wiped from the sites afterwards. It is in this section, surrounded by a chronological retelling of the headlines that captivated the collective consciousness of the city for the past two centuries, that Karkat finds himself. When he hovers his gloved hand over one of the books, the provided augmented reality glasses display a preview of its contents. With a few blinks, he can filter the available headlines and see what page each is on.

It is as he’s mindlessly running his hands over the soft, crepe-like spines of the books that a particular headline catches his eye. “Protests Erupt After Famed Local Detective Agency is Charged with Failure to Pay Taxes”. A photo of Dave, doing his best to hide his face, accompanies the text.

Curious, Karkat pries the book from its place. Bits of its sun-bleached binding crumble, falling from both the book he’s taking and the two on either side. Flipping to the indicated page, he reads.

“25 December 2120: [This article has embedded media. To view the media, select the corresponding option using the provided Viewereads glasses.] Locals, particularly residents of the Derse neighborhood, have been very vocal about their disapproval of the actions of law enforcement, who, three days ago, arrested and detained the primary owner of the Crow’s Eye Detective Agency. The suspect in question, David Escher Strider, was publicly indicted for a failure to pay the newly ratified Patriot’s Military Tax (PMT). The PMT was enacted to bolster the great military of Skaia, and is required of all businesses with less than one thousand employees.

“Investigation of the company’s public finances revealed that Mr. Strider, known for his work on cases including the Lower City Bridge Torso Murders and the Eastern Border Forest Arsonist, had failed to pay the roughly $55,000 required of him. (This equals the PMT’s required payment of 30% of a small business’ income.) According to both Rose Lalonde, the secondary owner of Crow’s Eye Detective Agency, and residents of Derse, this financial requirement is unreasonable.

“Ms. Lalonde has also leveled allegations of abuse at the upstanding police department. According to her testimony, Mr. Strider, who speaks using an artificial voice, was never given a chance to defend himself prior to arrest. Dried blood outside of the Crow’s Eye office may belong to Mr. Strider, which would indicate that unnecessary force was used during the arrest. However, only Ms. Lalonde has supported these allegations, and they are currently being considered superfluous and unfounded.”

Karkat frowns. He glances back to the notice of attached media, and selects the resultant popup. This results in the appearance of a grainy archival video.

Dave Strider is poised against the backdrop of the flag of Skaia, flanked by a pair of guards. His face is bruised, and dried blood has formed a crust beneath his nose. His hands are bound behind his back, and his shades have been removed. At this point in time, only his left eye has been enhanced. Its light is dull; the slow pulses indicate weariness.

“State your name, please.”

Dave grunts.

Offscreen, the judge, his voice now markedly more annoyed, repeats himself. “State your name.” After a stretch of pained silence, the judge seems to deem a reply unnecessary. “How do you plead?”

From Dave, a muffled sound. It’s an attempt at speech, but it’s distorted enough to be incomprehensible.

“I shall mark your plea as guilty if you do not answer, Mr. Strider.”

Dave groans. He opens his mouth for a moment, considers the situation, and hangs his head, his jaw now set.

“You plead guilty, then. I hereby revoke your license to officially practice, conduct, or train any individuals in the investigation of crime scenes until April of 2125.” A gavel bangs, and the guards drag Dave out of view of the camera.

The footage ends.

“The individual in the photo is, from what I can tell, only identified as subject EA04-2102-13,” Kanaya explains. As she speaks, she absentmindedly stirs the tea set before her. She glances at her handwritten notes, then looks to Rose. “It is nice to be back to full work capacity.”

“I have to agree,” Rose nods. “Is that truly all the information that is available about the individual? No further records or ledgers?”

“No.” Kanaya frowns. “Despite extensive digging, Sollux couldn’t find anything. And, as we all know, —”

“If Sollux can’t find it, nobody can,” Rose finishes. Usually, this is said in jest; right now, the words are weighted down with realization. “We’ll have to go about this a different way, then, it seems.”

“Indeed.” Kanaya takes a sip of her tea. “This is quite delicious. I must, as always, commend your tastes. While this was a bit expensive, it is also a pleasant treat.”

“Sometimes, one must spare no expense. A bit of luxury in the name of relaxation is, from time to time, not wholly a sin.” A wry smile spreads across Rose’s face. Without really thinking of the action, she reaches across the table. Her fingers intertwine with Kanaya’s, and a natural, encompassing warmth is shared between the pair.

* * *

**2 May 2125:** Another crime scene.

Before the sun had even risen, and long before the birds could even begin to sing their songs, Dave woke him up. The pair, without Rose, loaded into a self-driving taxi, and, at this point, they’re about halfway through the three hour journey to the new site.

“What you’re saying is that the territory of the killer is significantly larger than we thought?” Rose, from the screen embedded against the front wall of the vehicle, inquires. “That’s quite possibly the worst development I could have anticipated, had I anticipated it. Did you?”

“Well, Rose, if you didn’t, I sure as fuck didn’t,” Dave shakes his head as he signs. Between his thoughts, when his hands aren’t speaking, he rubs the back of his neck. “Look. We don’t know what’s happening right now, only that there was a suspicious report of activity in the Los Alamos suburb.”

“We’re not police officers.”

“A police officer is the last thing I’d ever be,” Dave counters. Karkat can’t tell if there’s a bitter edge to his signing, or if his recent discovery in the library is coloring his perception of the situation. He continues, and the same voice keeps droning on.

Yet, none of that is part of Karkat’s focus. Instead, what he’s focused on is something else. It’s a smell—like wet fur, or damp clay—that flows through the slightly open car window. It circles in the cabin, filling his nose. And, when he turns his head to face the source, he sees it. A solid black wolf sits, stoic, its gaze keen, on a nearby hill. It howls.

The discussion goes silent.

“What the—?” Dave begins.

Rose, from her remote location, is frozen in place.

There’s a distant bang, and a bullet hole appears in the window, just behind Dave’s head. Light streams in from the exit hole, which bores through the floor of the car.

“Get down, you goddamned idiot,” Karkat reacts, instinct driving him to survive. He’s lived for this long, a testament to the horrors that man can inflict upon people of its own species; he doesn’t exactly feel like dying to the same force. When Dave doesn’t immediately obey, he digs his claws into the man’s padded coat. He pulls him forward, just in time to avoid another bullet. “Stay down.”

Dave nods.

Karkat extends his claws. He slices through the hard plastic divider, gaining access to the machine’s inner workings. “Rose, do you know anything about computers?”

“No, but I know someone who does.” The screen goes black.

A quick succession of pops sound, and the side windows shatter.

Dave pulls a gun from its holster, hidden on his left shin. He flips a small camera up on the pistol’s barrel—a remote aiming reticle—and twists awkwardly, so that his wrist rests against the window while the rest of him remains behind cover.

“Don’t bother shooting, dumbass, you’re going to get your hand blown off.”

As if on cue, there’s a shattering bang.

Dave withdraws his hand and pulls his arm to his chest. Blood flows from a clear shot from one side of his forearm to the other. He groans, rolls off of the seat, and falls to the floor of the vehicle.

“Is Rose doing anything, or did she just fucking ditch us!?”

From Dave, a muffled noise, something that barely sounds like a word.

“What?”

Dave opens his mouth, preparing to repeat himself, only for the vehicle to lurch forward.

As the vehicle suddenly speeds up, both of the occupants are thrown against the back wall.

Karkat’s head slams against the decorative back panel, and the world goes black.


	5. Dawn of Man [Michael Guy Bowman]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's been a long long time  
> Since my life was spared  
> It's been a long long time  
> But I'm still not scared"  
> — [Dawn of Man](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/dawn-of-man), Michael Guy Bowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything in {curly brackets} is written.

**2 May 2125:** Slowly, Karkat begins to regain his senses. His eyes flutter open, long lashes fluttering sporadically, and the sound of his own heartbeat thrums against the wall of his chest. It’s like thunder, like the percussionary bang of a gunshot.

The sun has risen, now. It’s high and hot, hitting everything it touches with relentless heat. The grass beneath him is stringy and warm and dry. A bug crawls across his face, its tiny feet tickling his skin.

“Vocal module has—error code. Consult the user instruction manual—details, or access the help line.” The voice is marked by a high whine, but it’s distinctly human. Someone recorded this and embedded it into the device.

Karkat stirs. His head aches, and there’s a stabbing, distinct pain at the base of his skull. Something warm, sticky, and wet hits his face. When he wipes at it, he finds his hand is now covered in blood. It’s shocking enough for his eyes to fly open.

Highlighted against the blazing sun is the outline of Dave Strider. Portions of his hair are dark, matted with blood, and he’s tied his injured right arm in a sling. Judging by the state of his formalwear, he’s used his suit jacket as bandaging. His right eye is burning bright, vivid red; his left, marred by a noticeable crack, is dark. “Hm. Huh?” He vocalizes. His voice isn’t as deep as Karkat had assumed it would be; it’s actually closer to the upper middle portion of the male vocal range. Three diagonal, parallel gashes span across his face.

Karkat sits up. He looks around, and realizes that he doesn’t recognize his surroundings. All he can tell is that the pair are in the middle of a field of freshly planted crops. Ten yards away, the car they had been in is on fire, and clouds of thick, billowing black smoke rise into the sky. The smell of synthetic gasoline is bitter and acrid, as it settles in the back of Karkat’s throat.

“Hm?” The tone of Dave’s vocalization rises at the end, as if he’s asking a question. He kneels next to Karkat, and his right hand offers a bottle of water.

Though a bit wary of taking anything from the man, who has openly shown animosity towards him, Karkat indulges. Anything that can wash away the smell and taste of gasoline. He chugs, reveling in the cool, refreshing taste. When he’s had his fill, he tries to hand it back to Dave, but the man refuses to take it.

“Vocal module has—fatal error. Please. —” before the statement can conclude, Dave takes the box from his pocket. He throws it to the ground, then crushes it beneath the heel of his steel-toed boot. Afterwards, from inside of his jacket, he takes a red pen and a pad of paper. For some time, the only sound is the scratching of his pen against the outdated mode of communication and the whistles of birds. When he’s done, he rips the page out and hands it to Karkat.

His words are written in cramped but neat red ink. He never uses capital letters.

{You were out for a while. I had started to think you might be dead, but you started coming to after an hour or so. Sollux got us out of the danger zone, but the connection ran into the wildly spinning shit fan and we crashed. I didn’t know that taxis could explode like that.} (Here, a bold arrow, pointing towards the flaming car, has been drawn.) {I guess this means that all that talk about the safety and flameproof-ness of synthetic gasoline is just a bunch of smoke blowing from corporate asses. What’s new? Anyhow, looks like you broke your wrist. I set it, splinted it, and knocked you back out for a while. you’re welcome.}

When he’s finished reading the note, Karkat crumples it up. He stuffs it into his pocket. “Why bother doing that? Don’t you hate me?”

Dave shrugs. After some time, another note is handed over.

{I mean don’t get the wrong picture. I don’t like you and it sure as fuck isn’t like this is some sort of gesture of goodwill. You’re an informant and we need you alive. Besides, I hate a lot of people. I don’t want all of them dead.}

“What a cheerful way of looking at things,” Karkat grumbles.

{Maybe.}

“Is anyone coming to help us?”

{No idea. Rose has called emergency services and the last I heard they’re about two hours out. We’re not exactly in the middle of the city, if you can’t tell, so it might be a while.}

“Fucking lovely.”

{Hey, being trapped with the thing I fear the most isn’t exactly my idea of a hot date, either, werewolf.}

“You’re afraid of me?” Karkat doesn’t bother trying to cover his snort of laughter. “I’m as close to a pacifist as a werewolf can possibly be. I hate fighting, loathe killing, and despise the lifestyle that has been so ingloriously foisted upon me. If that’s your excuse for being a bold-faced, shit-spewing bigot, then you should try and rub up against another prickly, spiked tree, asshole.” He folds his arms across his chest.

Dave frowns. His brows furrow, and a low hum escapes him. He wipes his mouth before he writes.

{Is it illegal for me to fear the thing that killed my brother? I have my reasons. I’m trying to offer a fuckin’ olive branch to you, asshole, because Rose says that I need to at least _try_ to act like a decent person around you. If you don’t want to take it, then don’t.}

While, under normal circumstances, Karkat would refuse this wholly selfish offer in a heartbeat, this isn’t a normal circumstance. He needs something to keep him from thinking about his throbbing headache, and he needs to distract himself from the unease of being in a vast, empty field without cover. So, he plays along. “Fine. Not that I give a shit about your sob story, but I guess I’m sorry about your loss.”

Dave shrugs. He grimaces, hugs his arm to his chest, and shudders.

“So… Uh…” It is at this moment that Karkat realizes that this was a terrible diversion plan. He has near-zero knowledge of Dave, and he’s never been the type to be able to bring to life a discussion topic. Rather, he’s often the person to jump onto an existing train of thought. “Thanks for dragging me out of a burning car, I suppose,” he begins.

The right edge of Dave’s mouth twitches upwards, as if to say “no problem.”

“How long have you been tracking this guy?”

Dave writes, then hands over the resultant note. There’s a distant look in his eyes, and an expression of disconnected disinterest on his face.

{I’ve been looking for ten years. Formally, I’ve been on the case for six.}

“All six years?” Karkat pushes, curious as to whether the man will divulge any additional information.

And, surprisingly, he does.

{On and off. I got in trouble with the revenue office for a while, but I’ve been working on it the whole time. Fuck what they tell me to do. I can do what I want, and it’s not their problem if I decide to do things as an independent agent.}

Admittedly, Karkat admires the man’s dedication. He’s prepared to say more, but his thoughts are interrupted by the distant sound of sirens. Whoever it is that’s coming for them, they’re here.

[It really wasn’t that bad. I swear!] Dave’s signing is only slightly hampered by a bandaged arm. [You’re not really that worried, are you? It’s just a little scrape. Nothing I haven’t handled.]

“Was that supposed to be a pun, because I do not find it at all amusing, Dave.” Rose folds her arms across her chest. She stares directly into the camera, which is mounted above the small screen, both on the wall of the armored vehicle she’s travelling in. “I know that I have previously expressed my disdain for your habit of going AWOL to report to crime scenes that  _ are not even within our jurisdiction _ . These are incidents that we are in no way required, nor are we truly expected to be engaged in. You understand this. You are far from stupid.”

[I’m flattered. I’ll remember that compliment later.]

“That’s not why I’m saying this, Dave, and you know it,” Rose growls. “Beyond your own bodily safety, you could have gotten our informant killed. Do you know how absolutely execrable that would make us appear in the public sphere? We’d be blackballed for the rest of our careers, Dave.”

A woman, her brown skin flecked with freckles, and her green eyes bright with optimism, smiles. “Don’t worry! Karkat is perfectly safe! He’s in the other aid car. Evaluation shows that the most he has is a mild concussion.”

“Thank you very much, Jade, it’s nice to know that there’s one sane person in charge.”

“No problem!” From Jade, a smile. “We’ve done all we can do for now with the tools available to us, so I’ll let the two of you talk.” She waves, then disappears into a small staff compartment.

Immediately, Dave begins to offer up excuses. [The Skaia Police Commissioner said that he had it on good authority that this crime scene had  _ a lot _ of similarities to our cases.] He emphasizes by repeating the sign. [And how the fuck was I supposed to know this would be an ambush?]

“We’re treading in dangerous territory, Dave, we’re  _ always  _ in danger. Your actions could have cost us everything,” Rose snaps.

[You mean it could have cost you me? Look, I can put myself in however much danger I feel like. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, because I’m a grown-ass adult.] He holds his left hand up and forms two distinct handshapes—’O’, then ‘K’—and he pushes his hand slightly forward as he transitions from the first to the second letter. [Okay?]

As much as she hates to admit it, Rose knows he’s right. It’s not her place to call Dave out on his decisions, but she still feels as if there’s a limit to what he can do. Though she’d never admit it to his face in an upfront manner, she  _ does  _ care for him. He’s her cousin, her business partner, and her friend. She has as many reasons to invest herself in his well being as he claims there are reasons for her not to.

On the screen, Dave snaps, grabbing Rose’s attention. When her eyes are on him, he signs, adding to the statement, [Jade already sweet talked the insurance company into paying for a new speech processor, and it’ll be supplied at the hospital. If you get there first, you’re authorized to pick it up for me. They no longer carry the model that I like, but this one is a newer version. Supposedly, it sounds more natural. I’ll believe it when I hear it.]

“I’ll believe that supercilious statement when I am privy to the results, as well,” Rose huffs. “What of the surgery for your arm? Did Jade do any of her famous speechcraft on that front?”

Dave bows his head. He rubs the back of his neck. [She tried! She managed to get it down to 50% of the cost being on us, so that’s good!]

“And what, exactly, is that cost?” Rose asks.

Dave seems to shrink in on himself. He offers a few nervous wheezes of laughter, then signs his reply as quickly as possible. It’s an attempt to answer in a way that Rose won’t understand, but it fails.

“We do not currently have two million dollars, David,” Rose groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We did, but you put all of it into that ridiculous fund to bribe Kanaya’s werewolf friend to come and work for us as an informant. Maybe, if you’d listened to me for five seconds, you would have understood that my offer of one hundred thousand over the course of the year was not only more reasonable, but also more fiscally responsible. But, no, you  _ had  _ to make the most ludicrous offer in the history of bribery, and now we’re saddled with the bill, it seems. You had better pray that the calls I will be making to our insurers and the loan agencies go well, or I swear that your other arm will have a hole in it, too.” It’s all talk. Everything Rose says is just pure, inane, venting talk. None of it means anything, and both parties know this. That being said, she has reached her limit of tolerance for bullshit for the day, and it has yet to even reach 4:00 PM.

[I know.] Dave chews on his lip. [I’m sorry.]

“Yes. I’m aware. I’ll see you at the hospital, Dave.”

[Sounds like a fine plan.]

“Well, I’m not quite sure where else I’d see you besides a morgue at this point, you ignorant, impulsive fool.” Rose groans. She waves, and the display automatically cuts off.


	6. Life at Last [Paul Williams]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sit and listen while the fun begins.  
> Hearts are broken and the bad guys win.  
> Sit and listen all the cutting up is easy And  
> This isn't for the queasy or the weak of heart."  
> — [Life at Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djzo-JHaExs), lyrics by Paul Williams, performed by Ray Kennedy

**3 May 2125:** In the early morning, Rose picked Karkat up from the hospital lobby. As he was mostly uninjured, they didn’t bother to actually keep him. She accompanied him on the taxi ride back to the Crow’s Eye office, handed him the key, and left him with specific instructions.

“You don’t need to perform the duties of a maid,” she had explained, her mind half-distracted by constant side-glances at her phone, “However, I would prefer that you clean up after yourself. You will have the entire building to yourself, but please refrain from trying to snoop around too much. All of the confidential files in the downstairs office are off limits, but they are also under a secure lock, so you cannot access them, anyhow. You may eat what you want.”

Then, quite abruptly, she jumped back into the taxi and abandoned him.

He had fallen asleep, though the rest of werewolves is never pleasant, nor is it particularly satisfying. The inherent genetic mutations that define one as a werewolf prevent true sleep, allowing only the absolute minimum required to survive. It’s a strange sort of pseudo-insomnia, wherein one can sleep, but not restfully. He had woken around noon, and proceeded to try and distract himself with some mindless television.

This plan had failed. After roughly half an hour of some inane excuse for comedy, he began to wander around.

Thus, he finds himself where he is now. He stands in the middle of the room he shares with Dave. He knows what’s in his own drawers and wardrobe. And, while he’s not an innately prying person, with nothing else more to entertain him, he’s taken to poking around in the other man’s belongings.

He finds items that, bit by bit, reveal little parts of Dave’s personality. Most of his suit jackets are threadbare, covered in patches, and faded. He has a penchant for the color red, and he seems to exclusively wear either denim jeans or black slacks. Stowed under his bed are three beaten-down cardboard boxes, though access to them is blocked off by a dented guitar case. So, he leaves them.

He browses the bookshelf. It’s stocked with a fair mix of nonfiction, psychology textbooks, and fiction. Most of the pleasure reading material is firmly within the realm of science fiction. Most of the titles are uncommon, and the fact that they’re in the form of a printed tome suggests that they’re old. While a majority of these items fail to pique Karkat’s interest, one item catches his eye. It’s a tattered journal. The binding is made of crumbling fabric-wrapped cardboard, and half of the spine has fallen away. Seeing as he’s bored, and that he doesn’t exactly consider Dave somebody he’d mind having some embarrassing material on, he takes it out and opens it up. He flips to a random page, then reads the bright red writing. The top half of the page bears extensive water damage, rendering the first few lines, presumably including the date, illegible. Where it begins is in the middle of a sentence.

“… don’t quite know where I ended up. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m stuck in the basement of the Dock Street Pack’s safehouse. I don’t think they know I’m here. I hollowed out a little space behind a bookshelf. I overheard some of the talk recently. These aren’t the same people who put a hit out on Dirk.”

_ Dirk?  _ The name is, naturally, unfamiliar to Karkat. It means nothing to him, and he isn’t particularly keen on the section he’s landed on. So, he thumbs through the book again. He stops on a whim.

“3 December 2123: Turns out Dirk used to run with the Snow Stripe Pack. I tried to get some information on the most recent case (see file “12-01-23 James Doe #32”), and ended up connecting with some guy named Slick. He told me that the Snow Stripe Pack disbanded recently, but that they’d been in touch with Dirk before he died. Apparently, the day after the shit hit the fan, Dirk was supposed to meet them for poker night. I guess that’s why he always let me stay with John on Saturdays.

“Does it matter? In the grand, winding, ultimately insignificant scheme of all the goddamned things in my life, no. It doesn’t. But it’s nice to know that Dirk wasn’t some sort of random person with zero friends, who spent all his time taking care of his dead shitbag brother’s fucked up son. I guess it’s a nice birthday present, not that I’ve ever really given a fuck about my birthday.

“After I’d finished interrogating him, the leader of the pack gave me an old photo. I almost forgot what Dirk looked like; it’s nice being able to at least look at him.”

Attached, on the opposite page, is a faded image of a man—his face remarkably similar to Dave’s, but with a sharper jawline and a narrower chin—holding aloft a bottle of ash berry mead. While the text isn’t clear enough to read, the logo clearly belongs to the MoonShine Brewery, which produces ash berry alcohol, popular among werewolves. An orange cap is set, backwards, atop the man’s hair of deep, golden blond hair; a wide grin is spread across his face. Next to him is a face that Karkat recognizes—dark tan, freckled, and marked by bright green eyes behind rectangular shades.

The fact that the Skaia Police Department’s commissioner, Jake English, is a werewolf is well known, but his relationship to the Snow Stripe Pack certainly wasn’t. That Dave has ties to English is also not something that Karkat can ever recall hearing of, but it doesn’t surprise him. The amount of tips that the Crow’s Eye firm gets seem to indicate that the Strider-Lalonde pair have some solid connections.

It’s intriguing information, but not quite what Karkat is after. He thumbs through the book again. The entry he lands on is short and succinct.

“21 October 2120: This was the headline for the day. Pleasant.”

Glued beneath this is a print out of the Skaia Laborer’s Newsline. “Fifth Anniversary of Unsolved Crime Today.” The text is boldly emblazoned above the black-and-white image of a blood-covered kitchen. Evidence markers are scattered around the space, with one prominently staged before a severed human arm.

_ “If one thing can be said of the Skaia Laborer’s Newsline,”  _ Karkat thinks, morosely,  _ “It’s that it has never engaged in censorship.” _

Pushing aside his journalistic opinions, Karkat digs into the body of the clipping.

“Today marks the fifth anniversary of a grisly murder that left a resident of Skid Row Avenue dead and a teenager orphaned. Half a decade ago, at 5:00 P.M., a young man (whose name was never publicly released) returned home from school to find his guardian dismembered in the kitchen of their home. Dirk Strider, 37, was dead, and the only evidence that could be found indicated that the crime was committed by a werewolf. Hair samples recovered from the scene could not be matched to either occupant of the house, nor could it be identified within the Skaia genetic database.

“This case has since been famously linked to the Skaia City Ripper by the famous Crow’s Eye detectives, Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde. Some have alleged that the orphaned child occupant of the household was Dave Strider, though this information has never been confirmed. Shortly after the incident, the child, publicly identified as Refugee 346, escaped from government care and has not been seen since.

“Most consider the theory that Dave Strider is Refugee 346 to be dubious. Experts have noted that the surname of “Strider” is not uncommon. Scholars of historical records have noted that, while formerly uncommon, many mid-twenty-first-century genetic revolutionaries took on the name as a form of protest against hereditary loyalty. Others have pointed out that Detective Strider is known for his stance against werewolves, and has a long record of ensuring tough prosecution of any werewolves whose crimes he investigates. Both of the residents at Dirk Strider’s home were in the Skaia Countrywide Werewolf Registry (SCWR), under the classification of “Familial/Natural”.

“In the wake of this grisly anniversary, the Crow’s Eye agency has begun a new effort to gather information on any case that has been linked into the Skaia City Ripper’s database. Those interested in participating can follow  this link to do so. All information leading to arrest will be rewarded with $50,000 in cash. Informants are confidential.”

Karkat, now, chews on his bottom lip. He carefully closes the journal, reshelves it, and sits on the floor. He considers the information that’s been laid out before him.

Dave Strider is a werewolf.

Dave Strider is the very thing that he claims to hate. The world’s foremost force for imprisoning and jailing werewolves, regardless of the severity of their crimes, is a werewolf. And, somehow, in spite of overwhelming evidence otherwise, he’s kept it a secret.

In the background, the phone rings. It dully registers in Karkat’s stunned mind.

* * *

**5 May 2125:** [I bet this food is made of literal shit.] Dave groans and pushes his half-empty bowl of watery canned beans across the mottled grey cafeteria table. [It’s so bad I’m almost tempted to investigate the food in this place as a crime, Rose.]

Rose, smirking, pulls a small takeout bag from her purse. She’d smuggled it inside. Any outside food is banned, as it cuts into the hospital’s profits. She opens it, hands the burger to her cousin, and quickly hides it again. “Don’t worry. I anticipated as such.”

Dave wrinkles his nose. [Why did you let me eat half of this shit, then?]

“It was amusing to watch,” Rose admits. “So, about the case, I sent Kanaya to investigate the scene you’d been called to. Nothing was there. This was a setup. Who was your source?”

A frown crosses Dave’s face. His good hand rubs against the back of his neck before he responds, [The Brandston Police Department. Are you suggesting there’s someone planted there?]

“Possibly.” Rose takes the pen behind her ear out, and she taps the end against the table. “I don’t think there’s any other explanation for why you’d be deliberately misinformed about something so vital. Anyhow, the site you’d been directed to was a vacant lot. She did, however, find a note.”

[You’re absolutely loving the suspense, aren’t you?] Dave rolls his eyes.

“Of course. The note was nondescript, typed, and had been left in the rain for at least two hours. However, the ink was still legible. The same message as before was on the note as had been written on the wall of the prior crime scene. ‘Death is a constant.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

[If it meant something to me, don’t you think I’d already have told you?] Dave sighs. He leans his good elbow against the table and rubs his fingers against the rough fabric of his sling.

“I have no doubt, but I figured I should ask, anyhow.”

[What do  _ you  _ think it means?] Dave emphasizes his word by jabbing his finger in Rose’s direction with vigor.

“Me? My conception of the phrase is on par with yours, which is to say that it’s quite close to null. The detail wasn’t published in the newspapers, though, so whoever is leaving this strange  _ memento mori  _ everywhere is the killer.”

[That’s something I could have figured out, too, but thank you.]

“No problem.” Rose absentmindedly touches up her lipstick. Today, she has picked a soft, pastel pink. When she finishes the task, she continues the discussion. “The hospital is discharging you today. Karkat’s been watching the place.”

[You trust him to do that?] Dave inquires.

“Kanaya has noted that he’s quite a trustworthy person, and I invest quite a bit of stock in her opinions. So, summarily, yes.”

From Dave, an indifferent shrug. He reaches over and pulls on his tattered fake leather jacket, allowing the right half to loosely hang from his shoulder. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and sticks it in his mouth, but he doesn’t light it; he’ll wait until he’s outside to do that. So long as it’s unlit, nobody will complain. Hospital staff have enough to worry about, and policing an unlit cigarette isn’t exactly a priority.

After a few hours of waiting, followed by a few hours of travel, Dave finally returns home. Though it has only been a few days, he feels as if it’s been a century. He’s always been a bit of what people consider to be a “homebody”; his home is a place of safety, where he can drop his usual worries and relax.

So, when he enters his room, the last thing he expects is to find himself pinned to the wall, held in place by sharp claws, and with the snarling face of Karkat Vantas inches from his own.

“You,” Karkat growls, “You two-faced bigoted  _ jackass _ !”

Dave cocks his head to the side. He kicks, landing a solid hit on Karkat’s stomach. When the other man releases, he staggers to safety. He stands in the middle of the room, his heart pounding against his chest, while his brain struggles to reassure itself that he no longer has to worry about his father attacking him.

“I know,” Karkat snaps. He points to an old journal on the bookshelf and, as Dave’s blood runs cold, he says exactly what Dave has never wanted to hear, “You’re a werewolf. You’re a fucking werewolf, and you’ve spent your whole pitiful, piss-streaked life running from it.”

Dave’s natural reaction to fear takes over. All of his feelings—his anger, disdain, and hatred—slip away. Instead, he feels numb. He signs his reply with unabashed disconnect, and the only thing that keeps him from crumbling in on himself is the sound of his new voice. It’s more natural, he thinks; it’s more  _ him _ . “Sure. You’re not wrong. You could tell everyone, but who would believe you? Congratulations. You know information that’s useless.”

There’s something unnervingly satisfying about watching Karkat’s face go from rage, to denial, to defeated resignation. The other man sighs, retracts his claws, and levels a glowering glare at the detective. “Fuck you, Dave Strider. I hope you choke on your own fucking bullshit.”


	7. Geyser [Mitski]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And hear the harmony,  
> Only when it's harming me,  
> It's not real, it's not real.  
> It's not real enough."  
> — [Geyser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zdFZJf-B90) by Mitski

**7 May 2125:** The first time that Karkat decides to confront Dave after the revelation of his past is in the middle of the interrogation room. He sits, obedient, in his seat, but levels the most pointed, venomous glare that he can manage at the man. “So, what? You’re just going to ignore the whole thing? You’re going to pretend none of it fucking matters?”

“I’m going to perform my duties and I’m going to make sure whoever is doing all of this is prosecuted,” Dave counters. His new voice is more natural. It’s smoother, softer, and lacks the grating static backing of his old vocal simulation. “How much information do you know?”

“I just know that you’re a bigoted whole-ass shit-stain of a werewolf,” counters Karkat, his voice level. Frankly, he’s amazed at his own self-control right now. Just beneath his calm facade, he wants nothing more than to leap across the table and strangle Dave to death. “That’s it. I didn’t read anything beyond your poorly hidden, awfully maintained little journal.”

“You will not speak of this to anyone.” Dave’s fingers twitch as he signs, his brows furrow, and his lips curl into a snarl. For him to be showing this much emotion must mean that he’s on equal footing with Karkat when it comes to emotional volatility. “Your entire pay will be revoked. I will make sure of it.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Karkat says, honestly, “I don’t go around spreading bullshit about people, but I’ll remember this.”

Dave growls. He backs up, runs his fingers through his hair, and sighs. After a few minutes of pacing, he pulls his chair back. He swivels it around, straddles it, and sits. As he signs a reply, the dancing red lights on the back of his hands flash across his face, like lightning, illuminating an array of old scars. “It’s fair for you to hate me, and I guess that’ll just be another name on my already long list. Get in line. You’re not the first, and you sure as fuck won’t be the last. Your opinions of me don’t matter, though. All I’m here for is to catch the Skaia City Ripper, and you’re just the thing standing in my way. You can let me have the information I want, and I can go on my dipshit merry way, or I can run you over and grind you into dust with the heel of my shoe. Whatever option you choose, it’s wholly yours.”

“So, what you’re really saying is that I don’t have a fucking choice?” Karkat inquires, brows raised.

“You do, but there’s only one legitimately good choice.” Dave shrugs.

Karkat sighs. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he forces a reply, “Fine. What do you need to know?”

“Are you still in contact with any of the subjects of the experiment?”

“Yes. Most of them. Give me a piece of paper, and I’ll write down their information.”

“Great.” Dave provides the materials. He waits, strangely patient, and nods when he collects the contacts. He carefully folds the page and places it into his ever-fattening folder of evidence. “Thank you, Karkat.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” comes the bitter response, “But, you’re welcome.”

* * *

**9 May 2125:** The first source Kanaya and Sollux could track down happened to be an eccentric former participant in the ill-fated study, Terezi Pyrope. She was located in a ramshackle shed on the outer edges of Skaia City’s slums, and she gave her occupation as “drug dealer”, without hesitation. She was brought in without resistance, and given the conditional deal of freedom and a clear record in exchange for information.

As there seems to be little need to take a tough stance during this interrogation, Dave has opted to record information rather than do the questioning. This time, Rose leads the charge.

“So, Miss Pyrope,” she begins, folding her hands on top of the table, “You were part of the EA-04-2102 experiment, correct?”

“Yup,” the other woman grins. She pops the ‘P’ at the end of her reply. The red shades, which are perched on her nose, compliment her olive skin. When she smiles, she reveals pointed teeth. “It wasn’t exactly what I’d classify as ‘fun’, but it wasn’t a snooze fest, either. Is that what you guys are asking me about?”

“Indeed,” Rose nods. “What would you happen to know about the participant branded as EA-04-2102-13?”

Terezi pauses. Her brows furrow as she ponders the inquiry. “Any description?”

“We only know that the person in question has the form of a solid dark brown wolf when shifted,” Rose sighs.

Terezi snaps her fingers. “Oh! Dee!’

“Dee?” Rose cocks her head to the side. When she casts a glance in Dave’s direction, she’s met with the same concerned expression that she, herself, is now wearing. “Was that their full name?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Terezi smirks. She props her feet up, on the table, and tilts her chair back. Her hands casually fold behind her head. “All I know is that he told me to call him Dee. I didn’t like the bastard. He was too loose cannon for me.”

“Elaborate?”

“He had this huge chip on his shoulder. He was all about his dumb sob story, but I don’t remember half of it. The world was all against him, and he wanted to get revenge. He said something about having a shit list, and that’s why he signed up for the whole shit show.”

Rose’s brows rise. Though, outwardly, she remains as placid as ever, her heart is racing. This is further than five years of investigations have ever gotten. “Do you remember any of them?”

“Not by name,” Terezi shrugs. She drops the chair back onto all fours, then folds her arms across her chest. “A lot of random businessmen, that dude in charge of the East End Gilded Towers rental company, some restaurantiers. The list was all over the fucking place. Didn’t make much sense to me, but I didn’t really care, either.”

“Can you describe Dee’s human form?”

“Pale, tall, looks like every other pissed off early-middle-aged white man on the planet.”

“And what else might you be able to tell us about this individual? Did he have any particularly noteworthy markings or habits?”

“Once the serum was injected, he rarely went out of his wolf form. Weird dude, maybe some sort of furry. I wouldn’t know. Can’t tell you much more than that.” At this point, Terezi yawns. “Am I done, now?”

“Yes. Your information was incredibly helpful. Thank you.”

“Great. Do I get some candy for this?”

“I… What?” Rose hesitates.

Dave, with a wry smirk, interjects. “There’s some candy in a bowl by the front desk. Go ahead and take a handful.”

“Fucking sick.” As she passes by Dave, heading for the exit to the interrogation room, Terezi ruffles Dave’s hair. “Peace out, detective peeps.” Kanaya, who has been standing outside as a backup recordkeeper, opens the door for her.

Rose, meanwhile, offers Dave a look that’s equal parts confused and amused, in the sort of way that one is when a good friend does exactly what you expected them to. “Is there any reason for why you just let a self-confessed drug dealer take what will likely be our entire supply of complementary candies?”

[It’s a new and novel question, I guess.]

A short snicker escapes Rose in return. She rolls her eyes, then glances to the notes Dave has been keeping. “So, of this Dee character,” she says, trying to coax information out of her often tight-lipped cousin, “What was that look of consternation on your face for?”

[If I tell you, you’ll think it’s stupid.]

“Well, to be blunt, I might. But, has that ever stopped you before?”

Pushing up his shades, so that they rest atop his head, Dave rolls his eyes. [Okay, smartass, I guess you have a point. Now, this is just an  _ idea _ —,] he emphasizes the sign. With his pinky extended, he touches it to his forehead, then moves it outwards in a straight, diagonal line that pushes away from his body. The motion is slightly larger than it needs to be; an inexperienced observer might mistake it for a quirk, but Rose is fully cognizant of the variation’s meaning. [— but it seems like it might be related to my father. I mean, names that start with ‘D’ run in the family. It’s stupid as fuck.]

Without really thinking about it, Rose takes the pen from behind her ear. She taps on the clicker, using just enough force to get feedback, but not enough to elicit any sounds. There’s a mild sense of surprise, which she hides expertly; she hadn’t actually thought that her attempt to get Dave to elaborate would work. Usually, he’ll just follow a completely different tangent. Now that he’s on the topic, however, she attempts to press him for even further details. “And I assume that it would not be preposterous for me to assume this concept causes you a considerable amount of anxiety?”

[As much anxiety as the word count of every sentence you say, yes,] Dave nods. His eyes are no longer looking at Rose. He stares at the floor.

“It is an intriguing theory, Dave.” Rose returns the pen to its usual spot. “However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let’s continue to search for more of the people that Karkat listed, and we can go off of the information we gather from them. By the way, our informant has discovered your true nature, has he not?”

[Yes.] Dave winces as he signs. [He knows.]

“And he hasn’t left?”

[Well, we’re paying him to stay.]

“Hm. Well, I know that your usual style is to act as the bad cop, but it seems to me that Karkat might respond better to a more approachable approach, shall we say. Have you attempted that?”

[And why the fuck would I do that? I hate that loud-mouthed asshole.] Dave’s reply is immediate and defensive.

And, these traits, alone, are enough to tell Rose all she needs to know. “You say that you hate everyone that you actually have at least a modicum of affections for, Dave.”

True to Rose’s expectations, Dave responds with nothing more than a low growl.

“Well, I guess I’ll let you stew over my suggestion, then. I am not in the mood to meddle with your complex interpersonal dynamics at the current moment, but you and I both know that I might be at a later time. So, prepare yourself for that, and also write up the report on our findings from today. Do these arrangements seem agreeable to you?” Rose can’t help but smirk. For all his aloofness and insistence upon being unreadable, her cousin is, in every sense, an open book.

[I guess it’s more agreeable than letting you write up the report, since you didn’t take any fucking notes.] Dave drops his shades back into place. He gathers his things, shoves them into his folder, and rushes to leave before Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't tag Terezi since she isn't a main character or focus, and the same can be said of any other untagged characters.


	8. Kyoushuu no Sora [Wagakki Band]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone, when you tire of searching for the light in the confusion,  
> And you suddenly stop still, hating everything,  
> And someone says you desire a place to return to."  
> — [Kyoushuu no Sora](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCcFTth12cU&ab_channel=WagakkiBand-Topic), translation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence.

**10 May 2125:** The sound of rain forms a steady, percussive beat as the public bus trundles its way down the narrow, winding streets of the city. Most of the occupants are silent, either dozing off after a long day at work or absorbed in their own activities. Directly to Karkat’s left, Dave Strider is no different. Brief flashes of projected light against the inner surface of his shades seem to indicate that he’s once again browsing the available case files. From time to time, he makes small, deft motions with his hands, presumably manipulating an interface only he can see.

“Stop is imminent,” says the calming, synthetic voice of the alert system, “Next stop: Route 103, Hokkaido Intersection Shuttle.” A chime—low, then high, then low again—marks the end of the announcement. The message loops a second time, and the bus comes to a whining halt shortly thereafter.

A small crowd of businesspeople all leave, like a herd of mindless beasts, and new occupants enter.

“The bus is now departing. The next stop will be in ten minutes.”

Karkat sighs.

He supposes that today hasn’t exactly been horrible. Dave seems to be making an attempt to be less abrasive, though his mannerisms remain guarded. He hasn’t been dragged to another gory crime scene in a while, and no new murders have popped up. All in all, it’s a decent day.

Of course, the minute he thinks this, everything goes to shit.

Through the front window, the bus’ pre-programmed route is visible. It’s in the middle of passing through an intersection when the brakes are suddenly engaged.

“Internal error. Doors will now open. Please calmly disembark.”

The grumbles of annoyance and the rustling of people gathering their belongings drowns out the hissing of the door’s pneumatics. Slowly, like an ooze, the commuters exit. They all disperse in different directions, likely going to find the most convenient route to take.

Dave, meanwhile, takes a few moments to shut down whatever he’s in the middle of. With one arm still in a sling, he fumbles. By the time he’s finished, the bus is mostly empty.

Karkat is already standing. “Skaia City’s best and most advanced transportation system,” he gripes, “Yeah. That’s a fucking laugh.”

After locking his briefcase, Dave nods in agreement. He, too, stands. He lets a few people go ahead of him, waving them through, before finally gesturing for Karkat to follow.

No more than two steps later, the cab of the bus is shaken by a loud bang. The interior shudders as the vehicle skids. Cracks burst across the windows on the left side of the bus, while the sound of a broken car horn begins to periodically whine.

Having kept a decent grip on the grab bar, Karkat scrapes by with little more than what he’s certain is a pulled shoulder muscle.

Dave has also managed to escape injury. After the initial shock has worn off, he stumbles from the row of seats he’d fallen into. He does his usual routine of gestures, none of which mean anything to Karkat, before peering out the window. It’s little more than a quick glance, as it’s interrupted by the sounds of gunshots. As the glass shatters, Dave staggers back. He grabs onto the collar of Karkat’s shirt and pulls him to the ground.

“What the—?” Karkat begins.

Dave cuts him off. He roughly shoves the other man towards a hollow space beneath a nearby row of seats. He gestures. They’re not the same calculated, precise movements as before. Instead, these are frantic, general motions, ones that even Karkat can understand. “Hide,” they seem to say, “Stay there.”

Karkat, not exactly wanting to die on this particular day, and knowing that he’s nowhere near capable of fighting off armed attackers, does as he is told. He scrambles, and his claws gouge fresh slices into the rubbery flooring as he moves. By the time his back is pressed to the wall, Dave is gone.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” the voice is unmistakable. For all the realism of the new module, there’s an empty, emotionless quality to Dave’s synthetic voice that makes him stand out. “Don’t just sit there and gawk! Leave!”

A barrage of gunshots follows.

While Karkat has never been a weapons enthusiast, he’s been around them enough to assign rough identities by their sound. Right now, he’s hearing mixed gunfire. The rapid pattering and distinct, sharp pops are both from traditional firearms. The high-pitched snaps are from newer energy beam weapons. Neither of these are things he’d want to be hit by, even if marketing for energy weapons claims otherwise. (“Don’t shoot to kill! Shoot to incapacitate!” is the slogan for Dax Arms, the foremost producer of plasma guns.)

It seems as if hours pass, but Karkat is still distinctly aware of the fact that it’s a matter of mere minutes since the beginning of… whatever this is. He can’t fathom that it’s a calculated, precise attack on anyone on the bus. Dave’s presence was unplanned, spurred by an unexpected trip to the precinct morgue for new information, and everyone else on the bus was just about as ordinary as you can get.

He takes out his phone and fishes around in his pockets for his headphones. After finding and donning them, he pulls up the local news station’s constant feed. As he expected, the situation he’s found himself in the middle of is running as breaking news. Not wanting the light to attract any attention, he quickly shoves his phone into his pocket, opting to listen rather than watch.

The voice of an unknown man, probably a newer newscaster, speaks first. “—shooting downtown is currently under investigation. Due to poor traffic conditions, law enforcement is reportedly unable to arrive on the scene as quickly as they would like. Estimates given by the department indicate that the nearest unit is still twenty minutes from the incident, and most other units are being dispatched to control crowds. So far, one person has been killed. We are tracking developments.”

There’s a brief pause and, when narration returns, a woman is speaking. “As you can see in this live footage, provided by a viewer near the scene, it appears that there are approximately three armed individuals. There are two traditional firearms, and what appears to be a Dax ARE-3 pistol involved. We are unable to make out the two civilians returning fire, but viewer reports indicate that one of them may be Detective Dave Strider, of the Crow’s Eye Firm.”

Something slams against the bus, and the cab shakes. Shortly afterwards, the gunfire stops. In its stead is a heavy, dreadful silence.

The male broadcaster from before cuts in. “We have word that two of the suspects have been apprehended by onlookers. The final suspect appears to have fled the scene.”

Karkat doesn’t dare move. It doesn’t matter to him if the shooting has stopped; he doesn’t want to risk his life to check on the scene. He backs himself even further into his hiding spot, and he waits. He assumes that Dave will come to retrieve him once the entire affair is over.

“There’s someone still inside the bus?” The voice, coming from outside of the vehicle, is unfamiliar. “Huh? Yeah. Sure. No injuries in there?”

For as much violence as he’s seen in his life, Karkat Vantas has never been a fan of it. He loathes having to fight. Ever since he was a child, he’s been told he’s too soft; he’s too caring. He hides it beneath a layer of snark and vitriol, but, deep down, he fears the very concept of inflicting pain upon another person.

The doors hiss open, propelled far faster than the pneumatics should move them. The bus shifts; someone steps on.

A whistle draws Karkat’s attention to Dave, who stands near the front. His shades are missing, and his singular working eye pulses with a dull red glow. Blood drips down the side of his face, flowing down his neck; it leaks from a wound on the right side of his jaw, through which a spot of shining metal is visible. He gestures for Karkat to follow him. Another splash of crimson seeps between the fingers of his good hand, which grips his side.

Though hesitant, his stomach churning at the sight of blood, Karkat scurries from his hiding spot and towards Dave.

He trails a few steps behind, and watches as the man in front of him stumbles down the three stairs leading into the bus, then collapses in the middle of the street.

The world seems to be too fast and too slow at the same time. Karkat, uncertain of what to do, becomes a passive observer; he runs on instinct, alone. He nods when asked if he knows the bleeding man in the middle of the street. He provides information, and is ushered into the back of the ambulance, which arrives after what seems to be an eternity.

He’s given a general examination in one half of the van, while he hears the frantic sounds of working medics through the curtain in the middle. He’s deemed unharmed.

Upon arrival at the hospital, he’s met by a thoroughly distraught Rose. She wrings her hands and paces the room, but never sheds a single tear. At some point, when a doctor takes her into an adjoining room to update her, there’s a brief, singular scream. When she returns, she looks the same as before—stoic, disconnected, and impenetrable.

He doesn’t have to stay. At one point, Rose even tells him as much. He has no obligations towards Dave. He doesn’t even have any sort of warm feelings towards him, but something about watching a man bleed out in the middle of the street makes him  _ want  _ to stay. He can’t leave. He can’t just take a taxi back to the office and wait, uncertain as to whether Dave is alive or dead.

Instead, he waits. He remains silent. For as much as he likes to think that he’s good at helping people, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he  _ should  _ say.

“I called him a miserable bastard this morning,” Rose says, at one point, crushing an unopened bag of off-brand chips in her hands. “I shouldn’t have done that… I should have told him something kinder. Something better. I wonder if that’s the last thing he’ll remember from me…”

The ticking of the clock feels like a hammer. It comes down with regularity. It’s a constant, but an unpleasant one.

Karkat looks at the display over the entry to the waiting room. It’s only been eight hours since he got to the hospital, but it feels longer.

Shortly thereafter, a doctor in a bloodstained coat enters the waiting room. He speaks, but Karkat is too distracted to listen. Instead, he finds his hand being held by a relieved Lalonde, and he’s dragged down a series of identical hallways. An oak door swings open, and a surprisingly human Dave Strider—attached to a myriad of displays, with heavy bandaging around his jaw and neck—is on the other side.

For the first time, Karkat registers the man as something other than a vengeful, incendiary force. He looks down, at his hands, and slowly registers that they’re covered in dried blood. His clothes are, too.

“Karkat,” Rose’s voice calls for attention. She approaches, her hand outstretched, with a small smile on her face. “Dave and I would like to thank you for your early intervention. The injuries sustained would have been far more serious had you not stepped in.”

“I… fuck… I really don’t remember doing that,” admits Karkat.

“Well, Dave does. Regardless of your recollection of the event, I still owe you a debt.”

“He’s fine, then?” There’s no real reason for Karkat to be interested in Dave’s status. He can’t recall feeling anything more than lukewarm towards him, but maybe seeing someone almost die changes things? “I mean…”

“He’ll be transferred back to the office tomorrow. He’s stable and alert, but he’s certainly in no shape to continue the investigation for some time,” supplies Rose. She folds her arms across her chest. “Of course, he’ll probably insist upon continuing the investigation, but we’ll traverse that bridge when the time comes. For now, you should return to the office. It’s been a long day.” She drops enough money into Karkat’s hand for him to hail a cab, pats him on the shoulder, and returns to Dave’s bedside.

Not wanting to intrude on anything, and unwilling to stay in the hospital any longer than necessary, Karkat takes his leave.


	9. Fine on the Outside [Priscilla Ahn]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So I left home, I packed up  
> and I moved,  
> Far away  
> From my past one day  
> And I laugh, I laugh,  
> I laugh, I laugh  
> And I sound fine on the outside.”  
> — [Fine on the Outside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4ASDIs6JD8&ab_channel=Anna), Priscilla Ahn (from _When Marnie Was There_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** The second portion of part two of this chapter is another crime scene. Gore is involved.

**16 May 2125:** After the incident on the bus, Karkat does his best to avoid Dave. Why? He honestly can’t say. It’s just something implacable, a discomfort that he can’t shake. It’s something he can’t recall ever feeling before around someone else.

Avoiding Dave isn’t exactly hard. Considering his injuries, he’s mostly confined to the first floor, where a rusted old roll-out bed has been set up in the back office. All Karkat has really had to do is remember Dave’s usual routine and only wander downstairs when he’s not around. He wakes every morning around 9:00, eats breakfast, and returns to his room until lunch, which is between noon and 1:00 PM. After this, he usually lounges around in the main space for a few hours, retiring back into his room only after dinner, often around 6:30 PM.

So, to see him working at the front desk at 8:30 AM is, to say the least, odd. To be completely honest, it’s a shock that Karkat hadn’t bargained for at all on this particular day. When Dave starts talking to him, it just gets worse.

“Hey. You have a minute?” He looks to Karkat expectantly. When the man starts to walk away, he staggers to his feet, grabbing his crutch from where it rests against the desk. He limps ahead, his movements unbearably clumsy, until he finally catches himself on the stairwell banister. He signs, teetering precariously against the single support beneath his right arm. “Look. I know this probably doesn’t make any fucking difference, but I just wanted to say…” He pauses. The way his brows furrow, it seems it’s almost painful for him to continue. Still, he presses ahead. His left hand forms a first, which he presses to his chest and moves in a few small, clockwise motions. “I’m sorry.”

Having fully expected to be degraded again, Karkat finds himself pausing before he speaks. He stares, blankly and with nothing short of pure shock, at Dave. “You… You chased me down to say you’re fucking sorry?” He laughs. It’s a bitter, hollow snort. “You think that makes up for all the  _ fucking bullshit  _ you’ve put me through? You’ve treated me like absolute trash. I’m little more than useful detritus to you, right? Why bother trying to do anything about it now, you contemptible pile of shit?”

The right edge of Dave’s mouth twitches downwards. He wipes his mouth against his sleeve and taps his fingers against the railing for a few moments. When he finally responds, he does so slowly. Unlike usual, the software doesn’t translate in real time. Instead, it seems as if he’s simultaneously signing and tweaking the way the words should be said. Only after he’s finished does the familiar, monotonous drawl speak up.

“That’s a fair enough conclusion, to be real. I know I haven’t exactly been a great host, and I’ve let my own bullshit get in front of being a halfway decent person, but I really do mean it when I say I’m sorry.” As the words come out, Dave averts his gaze. He rubs his bandaged arm. When he leans too much weight on his injured leg, he lets forth a sharp yelp of pain. He sways on his feet, briefly looking as if he’s about to fall. “I’m not looking for you to accept the apology. You probably won’t. That’s fair. But I wanted to say that I owe you one, and I should thank you for saving my life.”

“Oh?” Karkat sneers, “So you’re only bothering to talk to me after I did what any decent person would do, and didn’t let someone bleed out in front of me? You’re still an insufferable bastard, but it’s just not in my makeup to let  _ anyone  _ with half a shot die when I can do something about it.”

Dave sighs. He takes off his shades, rests them on top of his head, and manages to briefly meet Karkat’s gaze. By now, both eyes have been fixed; both glow red, and the pupils buzz faintly as they focus on their target. “I get it. I just wanted to let you know that I appreciated it, I guess.”

“Okay. Great. Stop pushing for my goddamned approval, then.”

For a second, it seems as if Dave will protest. Then, suddenly, he shakes his head. He lowers his shades, nods, and returns to the front desk.

* * *

**17 May 2125:** The next time Dave and Karkat meet, it’s mandatory. Another murder has been reported and, despite Rose’s protests, Dave insists upon visiting the scene in person. He’s already in the car when Karkat arrives, and he greets his informant with little more than a nervous nod.

Much of the beginning of the journey is silent, punctuated only by small groans of pain from Dave.

Eventually, having watched the pitiful display for several minutes, Karkat relents. "You probably shouldn't have come out here."

Dave shrugs.

Karkat tries to embrace the silence. It’s impossibly hard, far harder than he thought it would be. It’s not the usual sort of loneliness he’s used to; instead, it’s a pointed sort of alienation. The person across the small aisle from him seems to beckon to be interacted with, despite every misgiving about him that Karkat has. And, when the vehicle lurches to life, and the memories from the bus ride a few days ago try to fill the gaps left by the nothingness, Karkat snaps. He speaks.

“You’re drooling,” he points out, grasping for anything to say that is neither intrusively personal nor too friendly. “It’s fucking disgusting.”

Dave responds with a pause. The right edge of his lips twitches downward. He wipes his mouth on the edge of a stained handkerchief. He doesn’t sign; when they come, the words seem to emanate straight from the processor. From time to time, when Dave’s head turns, Karkat sees his eyes rapidly moving, likely interacting with an interface only he can see. By the time the artificial voice begins speaking, the man is already reaching for his handkerchief again.

“I’m trying to be halfway decent to you, dude, the least you could do is try and reciprocate a little. It’s not necessarily my fault. People who hold kids for ransom generally ain’t medical experts.” As the next sentence begins, Dave traces a line across his neck, which follows a faint, jagged scar just below his left jawline. “It’s all nerve damage. It goes along with the whole ‘some batshit fuckers cut out my tongue and thought my equally batshit guardian would care’ thing.”

“Oh.” Karkat sighs. Part of him feels bad for dredging up such a thorny issue, but the majority of him simply wishes that he had though of something more innocuous to say. “Good to know, I guess.”

Another stretch of pained, and now even  _ more  _ awkward silence follows. It is broken only by the twanging, disconnected, electronic voice, slightly muffled by the fabric of Dave’s suit jacket. “You call me impossible,” it says, somehow sounding accusatory despite its flatness, “Jesus fucking Christ, dude, you can’t even accept a goddamned apology.”

“Yeah?” snaps Karkat, “Why would I? You’ve done nothing short of take a metaphorical piss on me the entire time we’ve known one another. The only thing that seems to have changed your mind is the fact that I didn’t let you die. Newsflash, fuckhead, but it shouldn’t take drastic, life-saving intervention for someone to treat another person like, oh, I don’t know,  _ a fucking person _ .”

Dave moves to sign, only to stop when his injured arm tugs against his sling. He groans, but still presses ahead. “I fucking get it,” drones the voice, seeming impossibly human in the moment, “I’m the biggest goddamned bastard on the planet. Rose even tells me that. It’s just what I am, I guess. I see people trying to be nice to me and I push them as far the fuck away from me as I can. Can you blame me? Probably. But everyone I’ve ever bothered getting to know beyond surface level has either stabbed me in the back or died, so why should I fucking bother?” There’s a poignant bitterness in his movements—the furrowed brow, the shaking hands, the way each wince of pain edges closer and closer to a full-on meltdown.

It’s all so incredibly, unbelievably  _ human _ . It’s vulnerable and brutal. For all Dave has done, Karkat can’t honestly say that he can’t, in retrospect, understand. In fact, considering all of his own losses, he can’t help but recognize the unnerving amount of similarities between them.

“I know I don’t deserve shit,” admits Dave, “But, I misjudged you. That was my fault. Not yours. I understand if you don’t want to, but I’d like to try again, from the beginning. My name is Detective Dave Strider. I’m a stubborn, two-faced bastard, and I’m sorry. I am truly, sincerely sorry.” When he offers his uninjured hand out, his face burns an embarrassed bright red.

And, if for no other reason beyond knowing that he’ll probably have to put up with Dave for more than a little while longer, Karkat somewhat reluctantly returns the gesture. When he grips Dave’s hand, he feels the wires that run just beneath the skin. The disks atop each knuckle dig into his skin, strangely warm to the touch. “Fine. I’m Karkat Vantas. I don’t know why I was recommended to you, but I guess I’m your informant.”

With a relieved half-smile, Dave reciprocates the brief moment of contact.

When the usual silence returns, Karkat finds it far more amicable than before. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s better than it had been.

He knows he should have expected as much. Most murder scenes aren’t exactly clean, and the ones he’s been dragged to are nothing short of horror fuel. Still, against every shred of available logic, Karkat had hoped that this case might be different.

It isn’t.

Dried blood spells the usual message on the southernmost wall, “Death is a constant.” The severed head of the victim has been wrapped in a net and suspended from a hook, which seems to have once held a hanging plant. The decapitated body is posed, with the hands gripping the shattered remains of the terracotta pot and rope from the discarded planter.

“The victim is thirty-eight-year-old Stephen Vanderbilt,” reads the supervising officer, “He was unmarried, single, and had no children or surviving relatives. By all accounts, Mr. Vanderbilt was not someone who would be missed after death.” His thick, salt-and-pepper walrus mustache bristles as he speaks.

Dave nods.

Karkat, meanwhile, investigates the scene by himself. He’s never been trained in the art of studying a crime scene, but he figures that doesn’t mean he can’t give it a cursory glance. He’s situated himself in the kitchen section of the open concept space, and he studies the streaks of blood that run across the beige tiles. It’s in the middle of this that he notices it. A severed finger. Even standing, with the section of disjointed limb on the floor, he can smell a familiar, but implacable scent.

“The dead fucker,” he calls out, “His hands are intact, aren’t they?”

Both the officer and Dave turn to face the informant.

Dave is the first to respond. “Yes. Why?”

Karkat gestures at the half an inch of gore.

After dismissing himself, Dave comes to investigate. Shortly after he sees it, he issues the command, “Bag that and send it to the lab. Forward me the results immediately after receipt.” The scintillating red, which shines through the back of his hands, fades after the last word. Then, when his signing begins anew, the glow shifts to green. “Thanks, Vantas. Looks like you might have finally gotten us a lead on this asshole.” He punctuates the statement with a small smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks for reading and i suck at beta reading! if you see any problems or just want to say something, comments and feedback are always welcome.


	10. Country Road [Yoko Honna]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No matter how dark the world’s inside me  
> I’ll never stop to show tears that I’ve shed, but now  
> I have to walk so fast, running, sprinting to forget  
> what is lodged in my head.”  
> — [Country Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vXQznpqs_k) by Yoko Honna (from _Whisper of the Heart_ , dubbed English version)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** A little blood and slight references to interrogation that might border on torture. But it doesn't actually get that bad.

**19 May 2125, 01:15:** In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, Karkat wanders downstairs. He carefully sneaks past Dave’s room, creeping down the rickety old stairs with the utmost care. He doesn’t dare wake the other occupants of the house. So, of course, when his foot hits the waxy surface of the first floor landing, the last thing he expects to hear is the unmistakable “voice” of Dave Strider.

“It’s a great thing you went into construction. You’re about as subtle as a shotgun in the middle of a knife fight.” Even in the dim moonlight, the glow beneath Dave’s skin and the soft light from his eyes illuminate the small smirk on his face. “Can’t sleep?”

“No, I’m sleeping perfectly fucking well. That’s why I brought my miserable ass down here, to get a goddamned drink in the middle of my quite obvious REM cycle,” quips Karkat. He brushes past Dave and heads straight for the fridge, from which he pulls a beer. He pops it open and chugs. It tastes like putrid, fetid shit; he doesn’t really care. He’s tired, and he wants to sleep.

Dave, meanwhile, offers a snort of laughter. He staggers to his feet, and the hard rubber foot of his crutch scrapes across the floor. “Funny. I hate to admit it.”

“Well, I’m glad I brought some humor into your bland, miserable life, asshole.” After another sip, Karkat gags. “Fuck!”

“Why bother drinking beer if you don’t like it?” inquires Dave, now busy perusing the contents of one of the desk drawers.

“Because I want to go the fuck to sleep.”

“Ah,” Dave vocalizes. The voice is hoarse, mid-pitched, and surprisingly gentle. It’s everything that the following synthetic speaker isn’t. “I have sleeping pills, if that helps.”

Karkat scoffs. “I know we had a little olive branch ceremony, but I’m not sure I exactly trust you enough to take drugs from you. Maybe you’ve already forgotten, but you  _ did  _ once expose me to wolfsbane  _ without my fucking permission. _ ”

Before he responds, Dave raises his hands into the air. “Fair. That’s fair! I just wanted to let you know.” The slight smile, which has been present on his face for the entire interaction until now, fades. A grimace replaces it, and he hugs his injured arm to his chest.

“You have sleeping medication, but not pain medication?”

Dave shrugs. From a hidden compartment of the desk, he takes a key. He unlocks a small drawer, takes a syringe, and rolls up his left sleeve. The wristwatch he wears flips up, revealing the hidden interface for his vocal module, as well as a port for administration of medicine. It is into this port that he promptly injects whatever happens to be in the syringe, after which he discards it in a nearby hazardous waste box.

“There goes my semi-decent commentary,” Karkat mutters, feeling a bit uncomfortable after seeing what he’s seen. He opens his mouth to say more, only to find his eyes drawn to the window, through which stream flashing lights. “What the fuck?”

After resetting the aesthetic cover on his wrist, Dave offers reassurance. “Don’t worry. They’re probably here for something else. I’ll go and check.” Backed by the sounds of closing doors and shuffling feet, Dave limps over to the door. Before he can so much as open it, however, the lock flips open, forced by a lockpick. Solid oak wood flies back, slamming into a thoroughly stunned Dave, and sending him staggering, until he falls against a stack of books and files.

“Officer Smith,” announces the intruder, his features masked by the flashing alert lights. Ignoring the fallen, injured detective, he approaches Karkat. “Karkat Vantas, you’re under arrest for suspicion of being the Black Wolf of Skaia.”

Karkat, his mind foggy from lack of sleep, responds with a bitter laugh. “Really? I’ve been stuck with the jackass you knocked over for the past few weeks. You really think that I’d be able to do jack shit with him breathing down my neck?” When the man reaches for his hand, he pulls back.

“That’s not really my problem, now, is it?” barks the officer. In one sudden movement, he grabs onto Karkat’s arm and twists it behind his back, after which he forces him against the front desk. Cold metal grips Karkat’s wrists.

From Dave comes a series of unidentifiable, but distinctly frustrated sounds. There’s a loud, disgruntled shout, followed immediately by a visible red glow at the edges of Karkat’s sight. “Do you know who I am, Officer?” There’s an almost animalistic edge to the voice, even without any sort of emotional fluctuation.

“I do,” responds Smith, wrenching Karkat’s arm so that he faces the door.

It is at this point that Karkat sees something that terrifies him to his core.

Dave Strider, with a gun gripped in a white-knuckled hold, stands before him, jaw set. He leans heavily against the wall, and a few droplets of blood have settled beneath his injured leg. His shades are askew; the left lens is shattered. The projector, mounted on the rims of his shades, blinks erratically, and dark lines dance across his face. He speaks, but nothing he said is intelligible.

“What are you going to do, Detective?” sneers Smith. The flickering glow of the sputtering mini projector shows flashes of pale skin. “If you shoot me, you’re done. English only bothers standing up for you because he boned your dead brother, and not even he can save you from a murder charge.” As if to punctuate this, he tugs at the cuffs, so that Karkat is forced to his knees.

Dave growls. He looks to Karkat, apologetic but defeated, and lowers his gun.

“Exactly as I thought,” Smith shrugs. He pulls on the cuffs, yanking Karkat back to his feet, before marching him outside, to an awaiting crowd of armed and armored officers. The last thing he sees before being shoved into the back of a car is Dave Strider trying to force a broken door closed.

**19 May 2125, 02:30:** From his house, even the fastest shuttle to the central police station will arrive in half an hour. In the early morning, with low traffic demand and inactive high speed taxis, the journey takes forty-five minutes. It’s a journey that’s only just started, and it’s already being overseen by the watchful eye of Kanaya Maryam, whose visage is shown on the screen in the taxi.

“According to the public records,” Kanaya says, her voice remarkably even for someone whose childhood friend has just been forcibly arrested, “The DNA test for a piece of evidence came back with enough similarities to his variant of mutated DNA that he’s being taken in for questioning. It appears that most of the surviving members of the experiment have all been arrested, barring the one we have yet to identify.”

The image switches to that of Sollux, the firm’s olive-skinned technological consultant. “The records I hacked into show that only two people were forcibly arrested,” he says, his voice carrying its trademark lisp, “Karkat is one, and Caspar is another. Caspar was released about five minutes ago, along with all of the other arrested subjects. I hate to say it, but it looks like Karkat’s the genetic match.”

“Neither of you actually believe that he’s the Black Wolf of Skaia, though, do you?” Rose inquires.

“Of course not,” affirms Kanaya.

“It’s more likely that I’m the actual president,” scoffs Sollux. He shakes his head, adjusts his glasses, and yawns. “Look, I gave you what you needed. I’m going to fuck back to sleep.” Without further input, his feed cuts out.

Kanaya reappears. The only sign of concern on her face is a slight arching of her brows. “I should also go,” she sighs, “Please keep me updated. I will contact Rose with any new information, should I find it.”

“Yes. Please, dear, go and get some sleep.” Rose frowns.

“Hm… Considering the situation, a promise to attempt to do so is the most I can manage. Farewell.” Like Sollux, Kanaya doesn’t wait for approval. She offers a nod, and disconnects.

**19 May 2125, 03:00:** Karkat Vantas, thoroughly beaten and managing to feel every fresh bruise all at once, sits before his interrogator.

Borden. He introduced himself as Investigator Borden. He's a broad-shouldered man with a slight underbite and a penchant for inflicting pain. His voice is deep, guttural, and commanding.

"Did you enjoy killing them?" he asks, with a violent smirk plastered across his face, "Did you like to watch their blood empty out?"

Karkat remains silent. He's figured out that speaking only adds fuel to the fire. He'd rather be beaten for maintaining a straight face than be imprisoned and begging for mercy.

"I know you're a werewolf, " Borden croons. "I can smell it. And I can smell your stubbornness. It's like rotting meat. Fetid. Rancid." Taking a knife from his belt, he presses the tip to Karkat's neck. He applies just enough pressure to draw blood, then withdraws. "And you know what? I'm going to be mighty happy to kill you when they find you guilty."

The most Karkat can do is offer us glowering sneer. There's no convincing anyone here that he's not the suspect. There's nothing he can say to right the massive wrong that's unfolding before him.

Borden, meanwhile, stands. He takes his baton out and spins it, deftly, between his fingers, all while commenting, "Just so we're aware, you _ will _ be punished. You will be dragged before the court of law and sentenced for every crime you've ever committed. And, then, you'll see the executioner. And I'll be waiting for that day."

**19 May 2125, 05:00:** After arrival at the precinct, it takes a further fifteen minutes for Dave to get in touch with Jake, who promptly demanded the release of Karkat as well as the retesting of the severed portion of finger.

From there, processing takes another chunk of time. Dave paces, anxious and filled with a gnawing, all-consuming guilt.

If he hadn't seen Karkat in passing that day, as he rushed by the construction site on his way to work–hadn't seen that stupidly soft- looking hair and gentle face… If he hadn't obsessively planned a way to try to interact with him, only to fall into his usual trap of pushing people away… If he'd just admitted what he truly thought earlier… If. If. If. The word sounds increasingly meaningless.

Possibilities. He's always hated the idea. He loathes the concept. There are no possibilities in his life, only lost chances and broken promises and shattered hearts and lives too broken to ever piece back together.

"You goddamned fucking idiots," he berates a group of trainees, people he recognizes from earlier, "You really just think you can barge into my house and destroy my property for a result that anyone with a halfway functional brain would recognize as bogus? What slack-jawed buffoon hired you?"

Time passes. He paces more. 

Eventually, the doors to the rear holding area open. Karkat–battered, bruised, and bloodied–is let out.

Dave immediately releases the breath he'd been holding. As bad as it is, it isn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. He beckons for Karkat to follow him and, with Rose also behind him, he storms out of the precinct.

**19 May 2125, 06:00:** There’s a gentleness to Dave’s touch that Karkat never would have expected. How could he? Having been on the receiving end of whatever sort of turmoil happens in the man’s head until recently, he’s never considered that Dave can be anything but a ruthless, dogged pursuer of his end goal. And, yet, now, as Dave makes impromptu ice packs from old rags and clothing, there’s something bordering on maternal in the way he cares for Karkat’s wounds.

“Hm?” he huffs, looking expectantly to Karkat as he sets an ice pack on his shoulder. He gestures, loose and certainly not in sign language, but managing to get the point across. “Is this hurting you?” the motions seem to say.

Karkat shakes his head.

Dave continues. He hums to himself. Karkat can’t place the tune; he’s never really followed music. But, somehow, he recognizes it. It’s old and melancholy, speaking of times long ago.

“Thank you,” Karkat mumbles.

“Mmhm.” A small smile. Dave wraps another ice pack around a large, deep purple mark on Karkat’s arm. He ties it in place with the loose ends of the long towel he’s using to hold the ice. Then, withdrawing his hands, he signs, and the vocal synthesizer hums to life, “This means we’re even. You saved my ass, I saved yours.”

“Fuck,” Karkat groans, “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”


	11. Hush [Michael Guy Bowman]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Movement in the dark,  
> Stationary sky,  
> Shadows in the park,  
> Formless in the night,  
> Breathing in your ears,  
> Whispers in the brush,  
> Nothing there to hear,  
> You against the HUSH.”  
> — [Hush](https://bowman.bandcamp.com/track/hush) by Michael Guy Bowman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly shorter than usual, but that's because i always cut off where it makes everyone else annoyed. UwU anyways, here's what the minor character death tag was for.

**20 May 2125:** When he wakes, Karkat is met by the aroma of fresh bread and sizzling sausage. He can hear sounds from the kitchen in the room next to the rear office he’d been allowed to sleep in. A spatula scrapes against a gritty old pan, and heated oil pops and crackles. For a moment, things seem normal. Nothing has happened. Everything was a dream. He’s a child again, listening to the sounds of his parents making breakfast. The minute he moves, the illusion breaks. The throbbing pain in his side reminds him of what happened yesterday.

“Hm.” Dave vocalizes. He sits on a nearby table, with his injured leg propped atop a stack of pillow, and winds a length of new gauze around his wound. “Hey.” The word is garbled and guttural, but understandable. Another nonsense vocalization follows, a sort of anticipatory hum, that beckons for Karkat to wait a moment.

He does.

Dave, after finishing his work, offers a courteous nod. He’s wearing a pair of plain shades, without any obvious wiring. Soft green lights illuminate his face, and the artificial voice takes over. When it speaks, his words are oddly minced, and his speech is formulaic and upfront. “You’re awake. I was worried. The interrogators are tough. Trust me.”

“‘Tough’ is the understatement of the fucking century, Strider. Those bastards border on straight up goddamned torture,” Karkat snaps.

A small frown flickers at the right edge of Dave’s lips. “Sorry. I usually change what I say as I say it. My glasses had a built in display, and I used that to change which words I said and how they were said. Sollux is working on new ones. I don’t have replacements.” When he finishes speaking, the lights on the backs of his hands fade. From his pocket, he draws his phone. He types for a minute or so, then taps a button. The resultant commentary, delivered in a rudimentary text-to-speech format, is more akin to his usual phrasing. “I’ll just stick with this shit for now, I guess. The usual setup is a dual interface. As I sign, the software predicts the phrases, and I’m able to tweak them to be whatever the fuck I want them to be with a paired app on my phone. The words are streamed back to the processor, but I’m missing half of the pair, so… Yeah. No fun phrases for me, I guess. Just boring, literal baby talk.”

Perhaps seeing the confusion on Karkat’s face, Dave elaborates. He sets his phone to projection mode, so that the interface is cast against the ajar wardrobe door. He opens an app, the color scheme of which is Sollux’s telltale mustard yellow, then sets the device on the dresser near the door.. In the corner, in flashing red text, is a warning, which alerts the user to the lack of a paired visual interface. “Hm.” He gestures to the wardrobe.

Karkat, though already curiously looking at the display, nods.

Dave signs, and the words appear in real time. It’s a rapid process, wherein words first appear in what Karkat can only assume to be the literal, signed order of Dave’s speech. It’s like flashes of lightning, but in the form of words. Between signs, and gesturing with his good hand, he edits his speech, replacing words and phrases with what appears to be a menu of learned sayings and commonly used words. Within a minute or so, the final text is available. “See? Easy. Well… hm… Maybe not so easy. I don’t know. I’m used to it. I’ve been using this interface for at least six years, ever since Sollux programmed it for me. I’ll go slower next time and show you an example.”

There’s a brief pause, which allows for Karkat to read the message, before Dave waves his hand in front of the projection. The screen clears. He signs, twitching the little finger of his left hand to indicate to the program that he’s started speaking. This time, he goes slower. He points to himself. The index and middle fingers of both hands extend straight outward, and tap together, crossed, at the second knuckle; the right hand is above the left. A rapid-fire series of handshapes follows.

“My name. D-A-V-E S-T-R-I-D-E-R.” Beneath the first portion, a prompt to change the sentence pops up, taking the form of a small question mark. He points his finger at the interface, opening a box of jumbled, abbreviated phrases. None of the words in this menu make much sense to Karkat, but the operator of the software is quick to choose a new saying, resulting in the text shifting. Now, where there was once royal blue text, there’s red, “Call me Dave Strider.”

“Huh.” Having once shared a programming class with Sollux, Karkat can’t say he’s surprised about the depth and scope of the application. Sollux has always been brilliant when it comes to programming, and this just seems to confirm that fact. (As if it needed any more validation.) “What did you do before this?”

Dave shrugs. He minimizes the app, turns off the projection mode, and picks his phone back up. He types, and a response eventually gets read aloud in a droning, grating voice. “Technically, there’s more options than the ones I showed you. It’s got shit for what little a computer can master of inflection and tone, too, but that doesn’t work without the glasses. Before I got the app, I just did what I’m doing now. I typed. Sometimes, I’d just sign and let Rose talk for me. Fuck, it’s usually easier that way. She knows how I like to speak, because she’s heard me speak.”

“I assume you’ll just be typing until the new glasses can come in, then?”

Another shrug from Dave. “I’d really rather not. This voice is awful, and I really prefer the speed and ease of signing. For public stuff, I’ll probably just stick to letting Rose interpret. That’s worked for a good seven years.” After a few seconds of silence, during which Karkat tries to think of a response, Dave adds, “Breakfast is probably ready. Let’s go.”

* * *

**22 May 2125:** In the flickering light of a dying fluorescent bulb, Dave studies his notes. His data is split into three categories. The first is an array of photos and sketches, all of which are pinned to a water-damaged cork board. A large screen to the left of the board displays the second category of evidence, which takes the form of news clippings and eyewitness testimonies. The final and most chaotic classification is handwritten data, which is haphazardly spread out on the floor.

“Are you going to go to bed any time soon, or shall you simply chug another round of those disgusting energy drinks and continue working on the case?” Rose, from the executive chair behind her desk, yawns. “Actually, we both know the answer. Good night.” She stands, waves, and shuffles out of the room.

Dave, meanwhile, focuses on the digital data. Applying an array of filters to his database, he pulls up the names of the victims. Next to each name, he’s noted their profession. Aside from the usual array of businesspeople and high-ranking, do-nothing office folk, he can’t really see much connection. It just doesn’t make any sense, and it’s driving him up the wall.

A sigh.

He opens the file for the most recent victim, Stephen Vanderbilt.

A lawyer by trade, the man specialized in getting power-hungry cops acquitted. His career was short but successful. In his five years as a practicing lawyer, he managed to amass a fortune in excess of six hundred million dollars, drawn from the deep pockets of repeat abusers. He’s the sort of person that Dave hates, even if he admits that he can be the same way. Still, he likes to think that he’d never stoop to the same low as this particular victim to achieve his ends… 

Somewhere, near the end of one of the many clippings about Vanderbilt, Dave notices a photo of the man in a courtroom. In the audience, near the back, he spots a familiar face—Jake English.

Out of curiosity, he switches to another file. A victim from several years ago, Boris Komarov. He was a former astrophysicist, and a few days prior to his murder, he switched his career path towards journalism. And, to Dave’s intrigue, the last article he published before his death revolved around an interview with Jake English.

Two instances doesn’t make a pattern, though.

Dave opens another set of data.

Allison Roper, fifty-four years old, murdered three years ago. A successful businesswoman and owner of a now-defunct technology consulting firm, she had retired two months prior to meeting the business end of a railroad tie to the heart. Her photos are unremarkable, until Dave sees it: a photo of the victim, shaking hands with Jake English.

He keeps going.

One by one, case by case, he sees it. Somewhere, sometimes buried and sometimes right in front of him, in every file, it’s there.  _ He’s _ there. The man Dave grew up knowing as an uncle of sorts, his older brother’s boyfriend.

He checks his watch.

Every murder happens at a specific time, either noon or midnight, and, right now, it’s…

His phone buzzes. In the pit of his stomach, he knows what the message will be.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and he buries himself in memories. He remembers playing checkers with Jake after school, albeit only on the days that the man wasn’t busy running around as a meter maid. He remembers how Jake would always laugh at his shitty jokes. He remembers seeing Jake, his normally bright green eyes swimming with tears at Dirk’s funeral. The minute the ceremony was over, after the plain metal columbarium door was locked, Dave was shoved into the back of a police cruiser and sent to one of a blessedly low number of subpar foster families.

He’d met the man again several years later, when he entered the law enforcement scene as a detective. He’d been greeted like an old friend, with an outstretched hand and a joyful hug. “I’ll tell you what, old chap,” Jake had said, “As long as I’m around as the head of the police, you’re always welcome. Not that the lads really give me much of a hoot, since the position’s all just pomp and circumstance, but you’re welcome to the office and the resources.”

Dave’s phone buzzes again. And again.

He groans, closes his eyes, and fishes his phone from his pocket. He’s never believed in anything spiritual, and his absolute lack of faith is only confirmed by the message on his screen: “New crime scene has been flagged for review. Victim identified as Chief Jacob English. Located at Central Headquarters, Chief’s Office. Priority: Urgent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, thanks for reading! :) comments and feedback are welcome. this is the reason neither dirk nor jake were tagged. because i planned for them to both be dead pretty early on. sorry, dirk and jake fans.

**Author's Note:**

> you can follow me on [tumblr](godtiermeme.tumblr.com) or see my spicy political takes on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sealandisreal).


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